The Man With No Name
by Frostfyre7
Summary: He hadn't really counted on getting into a pub brawl over the color of his coat on some speck of a planet, or signing up with a crew of petty criminals. Still, he'd always wondered what really happened to those Lost Colonists from Earth...
1. Chapter 1: Oncoming Storm

**Author's Note:**

**I belatedly contacted my trusty beta reader and brain-twin, and she found some rather glaring errors I'd missed. So...this has been cleaned up a bit, some grammar and tense errors corrected, and is generally more polished. **

**In the Who-verse, the Doctor has left Earth after "The Runaway Bride" and has not yet returned for the events of "Smith and Jones." For some reason known only to the fanfic gods, this story tells itself better without a companion.**

**She also pointed out to me, as a non-Who fan, that I might clear up a few things. I figure it goes both ways, so for those of you who may not have made the acquaintance of _Firefly_ yet, a quick rundown:**

**Colonists left Earth and settled another solar system, terraforming planets and moons to support life. It is now the 26th century, 500 years since the exodus from Earth. To the colonists, Earth is nothing but a memory, and believed to no longer exist. (They call it "Earth-That-Was.") A civil war has recently rocked the system (known as the 'verse to it's inhabitants) between the core planets' Alliance government and the border-planet Independents (also known as Browncoats). The Browncoats lost. The few that are left are mostly interested in surviving and staying under the Alliance radar. Life goes on; the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The Reavers, horrific creatures who once were men, grow bolder every year, attacking ships and border settlements and killing (not to mention raping, torturing, and eating) citizens. The Alliance does not officially recognize the existence of Reavers, and does little about it.**

**Recently, however, a scandal shook the Alliance powers to the core. A crew of smugglers and petty criminals, led by a former Browncoat sergeant and veteran of the battle of Serenity Valley, picked up a pair of fugitives: Simon and River Tam, brother and sister from the wealthy Core world Osiris. River Tam was an escapee from a government-sponsored Academy. A prodigy and genius, River underwent "conditioning" at the Academy, until her older brother–once the most promising trauma surgeon in Capitol City–broke in and got her out. The pair found refuge on the Firefly-class transport _Serenity_. The Alliance was not happy, for River Tam held within her tortured psyche a terrible secret, about the dead planet Miranda and the origins of the Reavers. Despite the government's best efforts, Captain Malcolm Reynolds and his crew broadcast the truth of Miranda across much of the 'verse, and evaded Alliance capture–though not without the loss of some of their own. For the moment, however, the Alliance is busy with damage control, and the determined hunt for River Tam has been abated.**

* * *

"This is me, for forever  
One of the lost ones  
The one without a name  
Without an honest heart as compass"  
–Nightwish, "Nemo"

_ The room isn't quiet, not really. His ship is never silent, never still–and yet right now it _feels_ silent. It isn't the first time he's felt this; he doubts very much it will be the last. Alone again, with only the repairs to his ship and his soul to command his attention. He feels as though half his self has been torn away._

_ All that knowledge and experience, and he still can't keep the loneliness at bay. He can't cheat death for them, or defy fate. He can't keep the walls between the universes closing, no matter how much he wants to. He can't stop them fearing him._

_ He sighs, leans his head back against the control panel base. Dear heaven, he's getting maudlin in his old age. Much more of this, and he'll find himself dumped on an ice planet or something, locked out of his own ship until he's in a proper frame of mind. She'd do that to him; she's done it before. He hurts, oh yes, and it is by far the worst bit in a very long time–but sitting about moaning isn't going to save anyone. There's a whole universe out there, and it wants helping._

_ And he's used to being broken._

* * *

One of these days, he figured he'd not be surprised to see her sitting in Wash's chair, though he didn't anticipate it'd be anytime soon. He'd given up the pretense of official piloting almost immediately, and turned it over to her. The little albatross was bidding fair to be just as good a pilot as Wash was–and without all the fancy schooling. So he let her have the chair, and pretended not to notice that Zoe avoided the bridge. Not like she was getting along real well with any sort of stairs at the moment, anyway.

He edged through the gap between stair rail and console and settled in the co-pilot's chair. "Everything clear?"

"Clear as crystal." River's long brown hair curtained her face as she leaned forward to adjust something on her own panel. "Clear as water, clear as–"

"All right, all right, I get it. No call to ramble on." Mal propped a foot against the console and reached out to toy with one of the plastic dinosaurs perched on its rim. No one had the heart to pack them away. He doubted they ever would. "Three days to Persephone, then. And hopefully," he muttered, "we ain't gonna have any trouble." It was almost a prayer, and the thought brought a wry twist to his mouth. Wouldn't the Shepherd laugh.

It was a feeble prayer, and one he'd uttered an awful lot these past five months. He didn't hold much hope of it being answered. "Things never go smooth" had long since become a personal motto.

A soft noise beside him drew him from his thoughts. River was sitting up straight in her chair, hands motionless on the console, eyes staring wide into the black. Mal frowned. Not the first time he'd seen that look. "What's wrong, _meimei?_"

"It's coming."

_ Oh, sweet hopping Buddhas._ "What's coming? River? Don't leave me in the dark here, darlin'. Something's comin', you give me warning, right?"

She turned to look directly at him. Her eyes were black, the pupils were opened so wide. "The storm. It's coming."


	2. Chapter 2: Unemployed

**Author's Note:**

**I've published this in two different places on the boards, since they don't let you choose more than one category. (Or if they do, I haven't the foggiest how to do it.) On the Firefly board, it's "A Life Less Extraordinary." On the Doctor Who boards, it's "The Man With No Name." Sorry if that irritated anyone, but I'm shameless when it comes to trying to attract more readers. :D**

* * *

Mal wrapped both hands around his mug, taking small comfort in the warmth seeping through the ceramic into his skin. At his elbow, a plate held a protein bar reduced to a pile of crumbles. As midnight snacks went it was pretty pathetic, but it beat lying in his bunk worrying himself to death. Besides, Jayne had gone and run off with the last of the liquor.

Been an awful mixed bag, since Miranda. The Alliance hadn't exactly plastered up wanted posters of Mal and crew all over the 'verse, but they were making their displeasure felt. Bounty hunters kept popping out every damn place. It was lucky the _buhn dahn_ hunters never could get along and tended to come at their targets in ones or twos, 'stead of a whole damn army. Biggest group had been a baker's dozen, two months ago. Ambushed the crew outside of a pissant town on Jianying. Mal had just turned River loose on the _ung jeong jia ching jien soh_ and watched her pound 'em all into groaning bruises. Hadn't even had to waste a bullet. Memory of that still brought a smile to his face. Jayne'd sulked about it for weeks. Still didn't set well with him, that a ninety-pound girl could kick ass ten times better than he could. Mal found it a bit creepifyin' himself, but it wasn't about to stop him using her talents to the best advantage. Simon hadn't spoken to him for days after–a bonus, to Mal's thinking.

The bounty hunters weren't the worst of their problems, though. With most of their contacts slaughtered and the survivors more than a bit shy, places where they could park _Serenity_ for a restful spell were mighty scarce. Wasn't easy to pick up jobs constantly on the move, and even harder to make drops when most businessmen of the sort to deal with men like Mal were leery about doing business with someone _shiang jing ping_ enough to spit in the Alliance's eye in such a spectacular fashion.. It wasn't _quite_ general knowledge that Malcolm Reynolds and the crew of _Serenity_ were responsible for blowing Miranda wide open, but word got around. He'd run into plenty of folk who wanted to shake his hand or buy him a drink, but not so many who wanted to hire him for a job. Coin was getting mighty tight; if Badger wouldn't give them a job on Persephone, they were humped.

And now this thing with River. Just the thought of her pale young face, her wide eyes staring at something no one else could see...Mal rubbed at his forearms, trying to get the hairs to lie back down. Weren't the first time she'd seen things–and he'd learned to listen, oh, yes–but her seein' things never was good. He'd tried to get her to tell him more, but all she'd say was variations on "A storm is coming." Bugged him like hell, and hadn't the foggiest what to do about it.

He hadn't breathed a word to the others about that scary interlude in the bridge. No sense in worrying them when he had nothing but those vague words and a creepy feeling to go on. River hadn't said anything either–but then, she rarely told her reader-stuff to anyone but him or Inara these days. Usually, he'd talk it out with Zoe, but she had enough on her mind just now and he wasn't sure he wanted to spring more stress on her. She'd probably hit him, like she had when he told her he was taking her off active duty 'til further notice. 'Course, she'd probably hit him anyway when she found out he _hadn't_ talked it out with her...

He didn't know what to do. Well, that wasn't true. They'd do business as usual, and he hoped to...well, he hoped, anyway. That maybe this oncoming storm would miss them, or that it wouldn't be so bad. Or that River just got her wires crossed and had seen someone _else's_ dire load of _ma fuhn_ looming.

Yeah, right. And he had some nice farming property for sale on Shadow, too.

"You're up late."

The mug in his hands jerked, slopping lukewarm tea over his fingers. He just managed to swallow a startled exclamation, emitting a strangled gurgle instead. He unclenched his hands from the mug and tried to surreptitiously shake the moisture off. "Evenin'."

Inara glided from the doorway to settle down in the chair across from him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," he lied. "Just not tired." He toyed with the idea of making a remark about his lack of company, but decided it would only get him in trouble. He never could manage witty innuendos where Inara was concerned; he could only manage rude. And he didn't feel like being rude to her tonight.

She lifted her eyebrows, and he knew she hadn't bought the lie. She seemed to be getting better at reading him lately. Annoying as hell. "Money worries?"

He grasped at the excuse; it was true enough. "Yeah. Thinkin' about raising your rent."

"I'm not paying rent right now."

"Hence the raising of it."

She shrugged. "If you feel it's necessary."

Dammit. He'd been hoping she'd get upset about it. A good argument might take his mind off River's words. He sighed. "I'll let you know."

"That isn't what's worrying you, is it?"

His jaw ached suddenly. He unclenched his teeth and got up to dump his tea in the sink. "Don't feel much like talkin' about it."

She didn't say anything, just sat there, her hands folded gracefully on the tabletop. Watching him with knowing dark eyes. He tried not to hunch his shoulders under that steady gaze, and kept his back determinedly to her. He spent much longer than necessary rinsing out the mug.

But...why not talk to her about it? River usually told her anyway. And Inara was a lot smarter than he was–maybe she'd understand what the hell the words _meant_. He set the mug aside and turned around, propping his back against the counter. "All right. Earlier tonight, River said somethin'. Somethin' that worries me more than a mite."

A small line appeared between Inara's flawless brows. "Something...as in a psychic something?"

Mal nodded. "She said, and I quote, 'A storm is coming.'"

"That's...vague."

He pulled at his suspenders. "Could say that. Bit disturbing, too, considering the sort of 'storms' we've seen."

Was it his imagination, or did she look faintly pleased at his use of the word 'we?' Couldn't figure why she'd be surprised–she'd been through nearly everything they had in the time she'd spent on _Serenity_. She was crew by now–though he admitted he hadn't exactly come out and _told_ her that.

"Did she say anything else?"

"Not so much."

Inara offered him a small smile. "Then why worry so much about it? It might be nothing. Even if it isn't, without more information we can't really do anything."

Mal ambled back to his chair and slumped into it. "I know. It's just..." He rubbed a finger at some spilled tea, tracing out designs on the worn wood. "I'm sick of storms. I'm tired of running, all the time. Surely a bit of peace ain't too much to ask. Just enough to let us all...heal a bit. Let Zoe do what needs doin' and get things settled some." He pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand, feeling the old exhaustion looming like a monster. "I'm so _tired_," he said, his voice barely a whisper, feeling a thick lump in his throat. He'd never voiced that outside the privacy of his own head, never let it show anywhere but in his quarters, alone with nothing but his ghosts. He couldn't believe he was saying it now, with her sitting across from him.

He heard the rustle of silk as she moved, felt smooth, slim fingers cover his hand on the table. He looked up to meet her gaze, saw compassion there. His own eyes pricked, but he pushed it back. He wasn't about to start bawling like a little girl, not in front of _her_. Not when he saw his own grief and weariness mirrored in her eyes and knew that it would take the tiniest little thing to shatter them both. Like him, she put up the front and kept going because everybody else needed it that way. Needed them to be strong, and keep the rest from crumbling under the weight of their grief.

"We'll manage," said Inara.

He managed a crooked smile and turned his hand to grip hers, hard, accepting the comfort of human contact. "Don't exactly have a choice," he said wryly. "Let the storm come. It'll pass. It always does."

* * *

"How long are we gonna be docked, Cap'n?" Kaylee's voice was muffled a bit, seeing as she had her head stuck under the mule, tinkering with something Mal was fairly certain he wanted to know nothing about.

"Long as it takes to find work." He shifted his weight. "Which gets hard to do when you're camped under the mule."

She slid out far enough to beam up at him through a mask of grease. "Don't want the mule droppin' on you mid-flight, do you? This model don't slither so well."

He sighed, and rubbed the back of his head. "Fine. How long's it gonna take?"

"'Nother hour or so."

"Might as well walk to Badger's. Once you get done, you take it and pick up the big stuff, _donh ma_? I don't want to haul it all back here by hand. Or try to make Jayne do it."

"Yes, Cap'n."

"And don't take Simon with you. Takes you twice as long to do anything, haulin' him around."

"He said he was going with you."

"_Ai yah tien ah._ Can't I take River?"

"She's out with Zoe, picking up stuff."

Stuff. He knew what stuff. Zoe and 'stuff'–when had he _ever_ imagined those would be in the same sentence? About never.

"Jayne?"

"He said something about seein' a friend, might have a lead on a job." She reached out, fumbled around for one of the scattered tools. Mal took a guess and nudged it toward her hand.

Jayne's friend, who might have a "job." There was a horrifying thought. Still, so long as it wasn't _too_ repulsive, Mal figured he wouldn't sniff at it. Coin was coin. He sighed. "And no way am I gonna ask 'Nara to go see Badger with me," he muttered. Simon it was, then, since Kaylee had to stay with the ship. "You gonna be okay on your own?"

"_Gu._ Zoe ain't gonna be gone long. She'll probably be back with River 'fore I'm done with the mule."

Yeah, and pissed as hell, too. Zoe wasn't taking too kindly to the fact that she got tired so fast these days. Suddenly, even dragging Simon all over the Eavesdown Docks held more appeal than hanging around for his second to return and take her frustrations out on her superior officer. Wasn't good for his captain-ly image.

He really, really missed Wash. By rights, _he_ ought to have been the one taking the brunt of all this...Mal pushed aside the sharp stab of sorrow. Weren't many things in the 'verse he wouldn't do to bring Zoe's husband back, but not a one would work. "Fine. Shiny. When she gets back, tell her she's got command. I should be back before sunset. I'm gone too long, y'all come and rescue me."

"_Duhn ruhn._ Be careful, Cap'n."

He shuffled down the ramp. "Be careful." Seems everyone said that a lot more than they used to.

Simon was waiting for him half a dozen yards from the ship, looking wary behind his solar lenses. Their relationship was a lot friendlier these days, but neither one of them cared to spend long amounts of time in the other's exclusive company. River once remarked it was because they were so much alike. Mal figured the horrified expression on Simon's face at this thought had mirrored his own–but he had a sneaking suspicion that there was more than a bit of truth to the girl's words. Usually was. Didn't mean he liked it, and he surely wasn't going to admit any such resemblance, but now that he wasn't frettin' all the time about keeping the boy and his sister out of Alliance hands he was starting to notice a certain similarity. It was all manner of disturbing.

"Don't stand there gawpin'," he said, brushing past the young doctor. "Long walk to Badger's."

Simon fell into step beside him. "Kaylee isn't done with the mule yet?"

"No. Some dark haired fella keeps distractin' her when she's supposed to be working." Mal shot a sidelong look at Simon out of the corner of his eye and was pleased to note the other man had the good grace to blush.

Simon cleared his throat. "Uh. So, do you think Badger will want to speak with us?"

Mal squinted against the glare, wondered briefly if he could get away with stealing Simon's glasses, and shrugged. "Surely hope so. Won't fly far without the coin for fuel."

"Does it seem to you that jobs are hard to get lately?"

"Noticed that, did you? I blame the Alliance."

"You always blame the Alliance, Captain."

"Well...it's their fault, ain't it? Watch that there." He tugged at Simon's elbow, pulling him out of the path of an oblivious laborer pulling an overladen cart. They turned off the main thoroughfares of Eavesdown and onto the narrow, twisty streets surrounding the hangars.

"Badger hasn't exactly gone out of his way to be helpful in the past. Why should he now?"

"Could be he waved me. Said he had some work."

"He did? Why didn't you say anything?"

Mal quirked an eyebrow. "Since when do I have to tell you about private conversations? You're the medic, Simon, not my gorram shrink."

Simon raised his hands. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to threaten your captainly status."

Mal chose not to dignify that with a reply. "We get to Badger's, you keep your trap shut, _dohn ma_? I don't want this job going south 'cause you get Badger all bent outta shape."

"No. I'll let you do that."


	3. Chapter 3: A Brown Coat

**Author's Note:**

**Thank goodness I can upload again! For some reason, it hasn't let me do it for near a week... **

**Few bits of business to clear up. First, I forgot to do the traditional disclaimer. I don't own Firefly or Doctor Who (though I'd happily own either Mal or the 10th Doctor!). I'm not making any money off this.**

**Also figured I'd best provide the Chinese translations for the story thus far, for your enlightenment. :)**

_**Meimei: "Little Sister"**_

_**Buhn Dahn: "Idiot, moron"**_

**_Ung jeong jia ching jien soh_**:**_ "Filthy fornicators of livestock"_**

_**Shiang jing ping: "nuts"**_

_**Dohn ma: "Understand?"**_

_**Ai yah tien ah: "Merciless hell"**_

_**Duhn ruhn: "Of course"**_

**see the end of this chapter for translations contained in this post.**

* * *

"So you must carry this light into the darkness  
You shall be a star unto the night  
You will find hope alive among the hopeless  
That is your purpose to this life"  
–The Cruxshadows, "Sophia" 

_Around him the ship hums to itself, patiently waiting for him to pull himself together enough to make a decision. He doesn't want to. Not right now. Instead, he rests his forehead on updrawn knees, and lets recent memory wash over him..._

"_Trust me!" Wind whipped past him, tearing at his jacket, threatening to tumble him out the door. The prospect of becoming a damp smear on a London motorway was an unpleasantly real possibility._

_She glared back at him. "Is that what you said to her? Your friend, the one you lost? Did she trust you?"_

_He was suddenly breathless, and it wasn't from the speed. He stared at her in disbelief. She really had no idea how much that **hurt**. He sucked air past his teeth and forced himself to answer. "Yes she did. And she is not dead, she is **so alive**." He clung to that painful truth, used it to make her see his sincerity. "Now jump!"_

_She had. And she'd trusted him, but in the end it made no difference. When it was all over, when she'd stood in the little yard with snow catching in her hair, he'd asked her to come and see the universe, and she shook her head. "I can't."_

"_But you saw it out there. It's beautiful."_

"_And it's **terrible**. That place was flooding and burning, and they were _**dying**_ and you stood there like–I don't know. A stranger. And then you made it snow! You scare me to death!"_

_What could he say to that? She was right; he was terrifying. She tried to be kind. Invited him in to Christmas dinner, even–but he couldn't face that. That way lay pain, and he had enough of that for the moment. Two bloody universes worth. All he could do was run away. Again._

_She'd called him back. God, but she could shout. "Promise me one thing."_

_He'd watched her, waiting._

"_Find someone."_

_He'd smiled, bitterly. "I don't need anyone."_

"_Yes, you do. 'Cause sometimes, I think you need someone to stop you."_

_And she was right. They usually were, in their blind, stupid ape ways. It was why he loved them all so much._

_Because they were magnificent._

_And now he is alone again, with Rose's face, and Donna's, and all the others dancing before his mind's eye. The ship is waiting for him. Waiting for instructions, for once, instead of pitching him somewhere he doesn't expect. She aches for him, he can feel it. They've both been through all this so many times..._

"_Just take me somewhere," he whispers. "Somewhere far away. Somewhere I can do some good. Somewhere I can forget, just for a little while." He buries his face in his hands. "Please. I don't care where."_

* * *

River could feel it, standing in a pool of sunlight coming in through the shop window. The oncoming storm. She'd told the captain, because he'd be upset if she didn't, but he couldn't hide his confusion. Or his fear. She wanted to tell him not to be afraid, not to worry, but she knew he wouldn't. He was the captain; it was his job to fuss and worry. 

It was so close now. She could feel it. A breeze no one else could touch. The smell of rain and ozone. Of passion and vengeance. Compassion. Mercy. Love and wonder and rage, and loneliness enough to fill the 'verse. There was so _much_ of it. Years and years and years. Shattered to pieces, over and over again.

Like her.

She still wasn't very good at explaining what she saw, what she felt. It was better, now that she was free of Miranda's awful grasp, but it frustrated her when she couldn't make them _understand_. Couldn't make Mal understand that the storm wasn't _bad_, not like the Reavers, or those who'd created them. The storm wasn't bad, but it _was _dangerous. Deadly, even. It was a force of nature, and it changed everything it touched. River closed her eyes, lifted her face upwards, trying to feel the rain on her face.

Other emotions, much closer than the tangled splendor that was the storm, cut off the rain like hot sunlight. Zoe. River opened her eyes, sighing. The storm would catch them soon enough.

Poor Zoe. River was careful to think that very, very quietly. Zoe wasn't a reader, but she was very good at it all the same, and River didn't want her to think she pitied her. She didn't, not really, but it was hard not to feel sad at the spiky mass of sorrow and frustration and fear and worry and love that lay caught between the formidable woman's heart and soul.

Poor little soul. It couldn't see everything, not yet, but it could _feel_. It felt the love, and that made it strong, but it felt everything else, too. River worried for it, but she couldn't make Zoe _see_. Wasn't her place. Wouldn't be right to interfere.

"Why does it all have to be so gorram expensive?" muttered Zoe. Her face was angry, but one hand curled protectively around the rounded bump of her belly as she tugged irritably at the price tag on a package of diapers. "You'd think enough folk have babies, they wouldn't run prices up so high."

River leaned forward to squint at the label. Time to make sense. "Captive audience," she suggested. "Everyone has little souls, and they all require diapering." She tilted her head to look up at Zoe through the curtain of her hair. "You could use cloth diapers, wash them by hand. Be cheaper."

The suggestion was worth the expression of horror flitting across Zoe's exotic features. It was hard not to giggle. "That...doesn't sound sanitary."

River shrugged. "It's just food, coming out the other end."

"I'm not continuing this discussion." Zoe jerked the package off the shelf and into the basket. She stalked off toward the counter clerk. Well, tried to stalk. She couldn't really do that anymore, and she radiated outrage at her own body's betrayal.

River trailed after her, thinking soothing thoughts. Sometimes it helped. Might even keep Zoe from trying to remove the captain's head, later. Zoe wasn't happy she couldn't watch Mal's back–and she felt guilty about the pleasure she felt in knowing she carried her husband's child. It was foolish, since everyone was happy about it, but River had long ago concluded that her family was even more foolish than your average human being.

Zoe paid for her items, and looked so ferocious that the nervous clerk gave her a discount. She didn't notice. River grabbed the bags before Zoe could, and was rewarded with a glare. "I'm perfectly capable of carrying those," she snapped.

River danced out of reach, easily avoiding the other woman's hands. "I know. But it's a lovely day, and you should fly."

Zoe regarded her gravely. "Won't be doing much flying with this weight." She rubbed her stomach gently.

"You fly even more like this," River insisted. "And so does the baby. It likes flying." She was careful to say 'it,' though she knew very well what the baby's sex was. Zoe's orders. "I don't care what kind of fighting machine you are," Zoe'd told her when she first learned she was pregnant. "I will hand you your head if you spoil this for me." River wasn't about to argue with a mother-to-be like Zoe. Reavers were nothing by comparison.

Standing in the sunlight just outside the shop door, Zoe shook her head and smiled. She only seemed to smile around River now, and River treasured it. "I will never understand the workin's of your head, River Tam."

River smiled back at her and pirouetted. "That's okay. I don't understand them myself."

"You want to shop some more? We could go look at dresses." There was only a trace of irony in Zoe's voice.

River's smile brightened to a grin. "You don't have to play mother to me, Zoe."

"Well, I figure I'd better get some practice in while I can." Her voice was very dry.

"You're not tired yet. You're glad about it, too."

"Yes, thank you, I know what I'm feeling. And I wouldn't mind walking about a spell longer." She gave River another secret smile. "Figure I'd best give Mal plenty of time to hide before I get back."

River opened her mouth to comment on this, then froze. It was here. _It was here._ She could feel it like thunder on her skin.

"River? What's here?" Zoe's hands, hot on her shoulders.

She wasn't aware she'd spoken aloud. Have to work on that; it unsettled folk. "I'm okay,' she said, but her heart wasn't in it. It felt like a galaxy in her head.

"Nothin' bad, is it?"

River forced her eyes to focus on the here-and-now, and not on the riot in her mind. "No...no, it's all right. Let's just walk for a spell, like you said."

Zoe frowned at her, but didn't push. That was the best thing about Zoe; she never pushed. "Just you say something, if we're heading for trouble. _Dohn luh ma?_"

"I understand." River grabbed Zoe's hand, ignoring the other woman's start of surprise at the contact. "This way."

She tried not to drag Zoe like a piece of luggage, but it was hard. Her head was buzzing, sparking, making it hard to concentrate on things like not running flat out with a pregnant woman in tow. Zoe gave up asking questions after the first few minutes, and they wove through the narrow, crowded streets of Eavesdown in relative silence.

They turned a corner, and River stopped dead. A few dozen yards ahead was a bar. It was one Mal avoided, generally, since it was _very _Alliance friendly and he only went into those kinds of places on U-day or when he felt in need of a brawl, and standing orders kept most of his crew out of them as well.

A crowd was gathered out front, sure sign that something was about to happen or just had. River let go of Zoe's hand and pushed her way forward. She reached the front of the crowd in time to see a body hurtle through the bar's holo-window and land on the hard-packed dirt in a tangle of limbs and long brown coat. The body moved, climbing to its feet and resolving into a tall, skinny man with narrow features and huge dark eyes, wearing a pinstriped suit beneath the coat. Thick brown hair stood up from his skull in agitated tufts.

"Well now, that was just _rude_!" His voice, pitched high with indignation, sounded like a colonist's off Titan, all Earth-That-Was British–but River knew better. The man staggered back a little, trying to regain his balance while scrubbing both hands through his hair to dislodge dust, leaving it standing almost straight up. "Here I am, just going in for a friendly chitchat, a little bit of information, and _wham!_ Knocked straight off my feet." He grinned suddenly, fingering his jaw. "But that was a _hell_ of a left hook! Who threw it? Come on, now, don't be shy, it was magnificent!"

The bar entrance disgorged a small group of rough-looking folk. One, a stocky, heavily-muscled woman, stepped forward, jaw set for trouble. She was a full head shorter than the man in the suit, but easily twice as wide. "You lookin' for another one, browncoat?"

He kept his smile, though it was a little wary now. "Not especially–and what d'you mean 'browncoat?'" He glanced down, swaying a bit, and his grin slid into goofy. "Oh, right. Sorry, didn't know there was a dress code. You might tell the barman to post a sign."

The woman scowled. "You tryin' to be smart, _chwen_?"

"Oh, but I _am_ smart," he said, all cheerful arrogance. "Won't find many smarter in all of creation, not anymore, at any rate. But if you're asking if I'm trying to be _rude_, well–I'm sorry. I know I'm rude. I can't help it, comes with the face and all. And these teeth. If it helps, I didn't _mean_ to be ru–awk!" He reeled backwards as the woman swung at him again, missing by scant millimeters. "Hey! I'm not looking for trouble! Not on purpose, anyway..." He swallowed the rest of his sentence as pistols made an appearance, leveled right at him. The crowd melted away in the space of a heartbeat, leaving only River and Zoe. Once guns were shown, everyone suddenly had pressing business elsewhere. "Always seem to find it, though," he added softly.

River felt Zoe's hand come down on her shoulder, pulling her back a little. Shielding, protecting...River rolled her eyes. "You might wanna think twice about that," Zoe said. "Six against one ain't exactly sporting." River knew, without looking, that the other woman was easing her hogleg gun out of its straps. She also knew that Zoe was cursing herself for a stupid, too-loyal Independent who had no call getting involved defending a gorram stranger when she was with child. River privately agreed, and wished Zoe would shelve her protective instincts long enough to just let River take care of it. Thirty seconds, and they wouldn't be thinking about putting bullets in anyone for a very long time...

One of the bullies turned his weapon on the two women. "And you wanna mind your own business, ladies. 'Less you want riddled, too."

"We got us a filthy _jone yee_ to take care of," added another. "Ain't nobody gonna be sorry about that."

"If I might say something?" The 'filthy _jone yee_' lifted a finger. "Just a couple of compelling, important, and terribly complicated little reasons why you really _shouldn't_ shoot me. Or anyone else."

Eyes turned back to him. "Yeah?" said the woman. "And what would that be, _sah gwa_?"

"Well, first of all–I'm not really a 'browncoat,' the color of my outerwear notwithstanding. And second..." he held up his other hand. Something small and silvery glittered between his fingers. "Your really don't want to make a man holding a sonic screwdriver upset." He grinned again, and this time it was fierce and not at all friendly. "Because they really can play merry hell with complicated pieces of machinery. Like a pistol." He tilted the little object toward the nearest weapon, and a high pitched whirr scraped across River's eardrums.

The gun in the woman's hand let out a horrific 'pop' and backfired. She shrieked in pain, dropping the mangled weapon and clutching at her bleeding hand. Her cronies stared in disbelief, too shocked to move.

The stranger wasted no time. He darted for the two women, reaching out to grab their hands. Zoe tried–and failed, much to her surprise–to evade him. River let his fingers close over hers. "Worked beautifully," he said, grinning broadly. "Now, run for your lives!" And he was off, dragging the two women along.

* * *

**Chinese Translations for Chapter 3:**

_**Dohn luh ma: "You understand me?"**_

_**Chwen: "Dumbass"**_

_**Jone yee: "Browncoat"**_


	4. Chapter 4: The Doctor

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes." (The Fourth Doctor)**

* * *

"And in the passage  
From the cradle to the grave  
We are born, madly dancing  
Rushing headlong through the  
Crashing of the days  
We run on and on  
Without a backwards glance"  
–Dan Fogelberg, "In the Passage"

Badger propped his scuffed shoes on the clutter of his desk and beamed smugly at Mal. "You been up to some trouble," he observed. He gave Simon a once over, then ignored him entirely. Didn't see him as a threat; well, that was understandable.

"Usually am," replied Mal blandly. "Keeps life interestin'." Beside him, and a little behind, Simon shifted uneasily. Mal figured the young doctor was wondering when the bullets were going to start flying and mentally gave him a few points for knowing his captain well enough to hear the edge in his voice.

"Interesting ain't good for business."

That was truer than Mal liked, but he wasn't about to let Badger know it. "As I recall," he said, trying hard to keep his voice cool, "_you _waved _me. _Said somethin' about a job. Now, I get the job done, far more often than not–and I recall having a similar discussion with you about this not all that long ago."

Badger shoved his shabby bowler hat back a bit further on his head and scratched pensively at the stubble on his jaw. "Yeah, y'did. Still playin' the soldier in a den of thieves, ain't you? Think it'd get old by now."

Mal shrugged. "I'm set in my ways. Now–you got a job for us or not? 'Cause I got a whole mess of things I could be doin.'"

The little fence pulled his feet off the desk and stood up. "I do. Right up your alley, too." He pulled a flimsy off a pile of documents and held it out. Mal took it, trying not to seem too eager.

He scanned it, then looked back up at Badger. "You go and grow a sense of humor on me, Badger? What the hell is this?"

"Jus' what it says. Rich bloke on Paquin's got 'imself a real live alien–or so he claims. I figure it ain't but a hoax, like always, but seems plenty of folk are interested in it, and willin' to pay t' 'ave it. _And_ I'm willin' ta offer youtwenty percent of the take, if you put it in my hands. That's about a fortune–and I'm thinkin' you're in need of some heavy cash about now." He grinned humorlessly, bad teeth glinting. "What with the bounty hunters makin' your life difficult an' all."

Mal glowered. It galled him to no end that a little _joo bah jeh_ like Badger was the one callin' the shots. But coin was coin, and _Serenity_ was in dire need of it. "And so you figure I'm desperate enough to take a _shiang jing_ job like this?"

"Penny for the smart man." Badger was still grinning. Mal shoved his hands in his coat pockets before the twitching in his fists gave him away. "You already pulled off a _jing chai_ job on a tight-arse planet like Bellerophon–not to mention Ariel–so I'm sure you can 'andle this one. And if not..." He shrugged.

"Yeah. No loss to you. Very human of you, Badger."

"Business is business, mate. An' t'be honest, I don't much like you. But you're good at your job, and that's all that really matters."

"Wheel's still turnin', Badger."

"An' you're still on th' rim."

Once, just once, he'd like to come out of these meetings with some gorram dignity. He was smarter than Badger, by a long sight, and yet... "C'mon, Doc," he said to Simon. "Seems we got ourselves a job." He fixed Badger with a hard stare. "Just you hold up your end on this, Badger. I'm gettin' awful tired of folks shootin' me in the back."

"You do the job, I get you the coin," said Badger calmly. Unruffled, dammit. "Simple as that." He sat back down at his desk and turned his attention to the stacks of paperwork–a dismissal clear as the man's ugly face.

Mal's jaw was aching again, and he felt a powerful need to hit something. Or get drunk. Maybe both. Worst bit was, he couldn't. Too much to do, too many responsibilities.

Dammit.

Some days, he really hated being the captain.

* * *

Zoe figured she'd gone crazy. Only explanation as to why she'd allowed a complete stranger to grab her by the hand and haul her around like some stupid _hur bao duhn_ kid. Sure, she hadn't exactly _wanted_ to get into a shootout with the thugs at the bar–not while six months pregnant, at any rate–but this was downright nuts. 

She'd just about decided to put a stop to the insanity, and maybe introduce this brown-coated lunatic to the business end of her fist, when he slowed down and came to a halt all on his own. They were in a blind alley, maybe half a mile from _Serenity_, Zoe guessed. Pretty unremarkable alley–narrow, full of trash, crumbling walls. There was an odd looking shed at the dead-end, made of wood and painted blue.

The _chai neow_ let go of her hand and sagged back against the wall, grinning and panting like he'd just had the time of his life. "Well now," he said. "That was a bit of fun. Not sure I'd want to do it again, anytime soon, but there's nothing like a good jog to start off the day." He squinted at the two women, and his eyes fell on Zoe's midsection. Eyebrows crawled toward his unruly hair. "Oh dear. So sorry, I didn't realize...well, I suppose running can't hurt much, can it? You very far along? I'd say, oh, about six months or so. Know what it is, yet? Your first? I can tell you–"

Sweet Buddha, but not even _Wash_ had babbled this much, and Zoe always figured her man was the best in the 'verse at inane babble. "_Bi jweh_," she snapped.

He shut up, and blinked at her. Then, "Er...was that _Chinese_? Not the best accent in the world, mind you, but I'd have sworn you spoke Eng–"

"_Shut up._ Can say it in a number of other languages, too, including fist." Zoe held one up.

The stranger shut his mouth, though muscles along his jaw twitched like words were still fighting to get out. He eyed her knuckles warily, and nodded.

Zoe eyed him over, trying to get a feel for the sort of threat he might present. Little taller than the Captain. He moved fast, too, fast enough to grab her hand when she didn't want him to. Might be stronger than that skinny frame suggested–his grip was firm enough. Pale, like he didn't spend a lot of time outdoors, with a spattering of freckles across nose and cheeks. Sharp features just this side of handsome, but far away from pretty. Longish sideburns and thick, shaggy hair that had a life all its own–reminded her a bit of Wash's. She ignored the little stab of pain at that thought. Huge eyes, long lashed as a girl's and dark as her own, with arched eyebrows above them that seemed incapable of holding still. Not very old, maybe thirty four or so. 'Bout her and the Captain's age. Wearing a tailored brown suit with blue pinstripes. Dark shirt and tie.

He _looked_ unthreatening. A scrawny, soft-living Core resident stupid enough to wear the wrong color coat in the wrong part of the Eavesdown docks. Bit crazy, probably, babbling away like that. What was that word she'd heard River use once about her brother? Nerd. He looked like a nerd.

But something was wrong. Zoe trusted her eyes and her brain, but she trusted her instincts more–and they were insisting that this man was _dangerous_.

Which made no kind of sense. He wasn't even armed. That coat was long, but like the suit it was tailored to fit his slim frame quite well–nowhere to hide a weapon.

But he had an odd little tool he'd used with devastating effect back there.

She was damn certain she could lay him out, even out of condition and six months pregnant.

But a little voice in her head suggested that to do so might be a very, very bad idea–though it couldn't supply reasons why.

There were too many contradictions here, and that made Zoe a mite tetchy. She didn't like being tetchy. It made the baby kick.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

His Adam's apple–prominent in that skinny throat–bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Uh...can I talk now?"

"Long as you keep it short and truthful."

"Right." He looked doubtful at the thought. "I–I'm...well," he frowned a bit, then his face cleared, "I'm the Doctor." He offered her an uneasy smile.

Zoe's eyes narrowed. His body language said 'nervous'–but there was no fear in those dark eyes. If anything, the expression there seemed faintly _amused_. "Doctor who?" she growled.

Definitely amusement. "Just...the Doctor."

She reached for her hogleg, fully intending to wipe the amusement out of those eyes and get a real gorram answer out of him.

Small fingers closed around her wrist. Zoe looked down to meet another set of dark eyes. "River."

The girl raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "Don't hurt him," she said. "It's bad for the baby. Bad for everyone."

Zoe snorted. "What do you recommend then, _meimei_? Can you tell me his name?"

River glanced slyly at the man calling himself "the Doctor." "It's a secret," she said. "No one knows. No one remembers."

Out of the corner of her eye, Zoe saw the man's eyebrows snap together, and he stared intently at River. "That don't make a lot of sense, River," Zoe said.

"No, but that's how it is," the girl said simply.

"If it makes you feel better," the man offered, "you can call me John Smith. Though really I prefer 'the Doctor.'" He smiled crookedly. "Bit pompous, I know, but I'm rather fond of the title. At least I'm not running around calling myself something really pretentious, like 'the Master' or something."

"Don't much plan on callin' you anything," said Zoe. "Seeing as River and I will be taking our leave. We've got business to be done, and a ship to be leaving on." She turned to go, reaching for River's arm.

The girl evaded her grasp. "He's alone," she said.

"Noticed that." Zoe reached for her again, huffing in frustration as River slipped away once more.

"He needs to see the captain." River's voice was insistent.

Zoe met the man's eyes. He looked puzzled. "Why?" she asked. "The captain's not gonna want to see _him_. He's got other things to worry over."

River's eyes glittered. "He knows. I told him. It's important."

"Didn't mention anything to me." Not that it meant a gorram thing; Mal didn't tell her a lot of things, these days. Didn't want to 'worry' her. Men turned so odd when a woman got pregnant...

The stranger was watching them both with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry," he said, "but _why_ exactly do I need to speak to this man?"

"You have to," said River insistently. "It's important."

His eyes flashed. "I don't take orders very well, little girl. I appreciate the help back there and all, but don't think for a moment it means I'm going to follow you around on your say so."

River lifted her chin. "It's why you came here."

The Doctor frowned down at her, searching her face. "There's something very strange about you," he said softly. "What's your name?"

"I'm the River," she replied. "That's Zoe. And you're the storm."

His eyes widened. "How could you possibly–" He broke off and looked at Zoe. "I think perhaps I'd better speak with your captain after all. I don't suppose there's room on your ship for that?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the blue wooden shed.

Zoe folded her arms and glared.

He shuffled his feet, looking a little sheepish. "Only it's something of a...family heirloom It's a bit odd, I know, not to mention awkward, but I honestly don't go anywhere without it."

He was lying. For a man her instincts found hard to define, he was a gorram awful liar. Still, she couldn't figure why anyone would lie about a shed, so she shrugged. "If we can haul it on the mule–and provided you can pay passage."

"Pay. Oh, I'll need money, won't I?" He whistled through his teeth and bounced again on his heels. "Never did like that concept, but I suppose there's no avoiding it. All right. Tell you what–I'll go fetch some money and you move the box there to your ship. I'll meet you later." He beamed at them. "I'm so glad I met you!"

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

_**Joo bah jeh : **_**"Ugly or perverted person"**

_**Shiang Jing: **_**"Nuts"**

_**Jing chai: **_**"Brilliant"**

**_Hur bao duhn_: "Flat-chested"**

**_Chai neow_: "Oddball or goof"**

_**Bi jweh: **_**"Shut up."**

_**Meimei: **_**"Little sister"**


	5. Chapter 5: Trouble and Rain

**Thanks for the kind reviews. Keep them coming--it's the only thing keeping me writing during finals week:D**

* * *

Mal's fingertips were numb. He stopped drumming his fingers on the crate he was sitting on and wrapped them around his suspenders instead, avoiding Simon's glare. He shouldn't be worried, not yet. Zoe was more'n capable of looking after her own self, and the little albatross wasn't exactly helpless. No call to be worried that they were a few minutes late...

"They're late." Simon's voice was flat.

Mal sighed. Boy never stopped fussing over his sister. It was sweet, in an annoying, make-the-captain-miserable sort of way. Problem was, when the doctor started fussin' the only thing to shut him up was usually a fist to the jaw. Which made Kaylee all sorts of upset, and Mal always felt like ten kinds of _huen dahn_, upsettin' little Kaylee. Mal carefully ignored the little voice in his head that pointed out that he was worried, too. Wasn't anything new; he worried about Zoe all the time. And everyone else. "They're shopping," he said. "Two women, out shopping–can't expect them to be back in any sort of time."

"Zoe hates shopping, and I'm not real sure shopping enters into River's plane of existence."

"You don't know Zoe half as well as I do. You've never seen that woman in a gun shop. 'Sides, women get all kinds of strange when they're pregnant. She's probably lingerin' over booties or some such frill. And I'll have you know, I had to bodily drag your sister out of a dress shop, last time we were planetside."

Simon scowled, but didn't argue.

"Don't see why we gotta sit around waitin' for 'em," grumbled Jayne. The big mercenary slouched down _Serenity's_ ramp. "Plenty of things to do."

"You ain't going out and getting drunk," Mal said. "I don't much feel like pouring you into your bunk this trip. You get the supplies stowed? I don't want to be trippin' over stuff."

"It's stowed." Jayne propped his shoulders against _Serenity's_ hull. "Everythin' we might need to steal an _alien_." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "You sure you didn't stop by a bar on your way t'see Badger?"

Mal sighed. "It's a job. You want payin', don't you?"

"I had a job all lined up," said Jayne, sulkily.

"Yeah, well, transportin' whores to the border planets ain't exactly what I'd call a _job_, Jayne."

"Transported plenty of other things. Don't know why it's a problem, seein' as we already got a–" Jayne swallowed the rest of his sentence, eyeing Mal's darkening face warily. The mercenary cleared his throat. "Anyway. Don't see why it'd be a fuss."

"Most of those lookin' to hire the transport don't exactly deal in willin' whores." Mal rubbed his jaw. "And we don't do slave tradin'. Don't care how good the coin is."

"You get prissy about the weirdest damn things, Mal," grumbled Jayne.

"Everyone needs a hobby." Mal said absently, watching Simon uneasily. The young doctor's scowl was growing steadily darker. Another minute, and he'd start in again with the fussin.' Wasn't shy about it, not anymore. Seemed to think that it didn't matter what he said, Mal wouldn't throw him off the ship.

Mal wondered when, exactly, Simon had gotten so gorram good at reading him.

"You stocked up on medical supplies?" he asked, before Simon could speak.

The younger man stared at him levelly. "You asked me that half an hour ago. It's not going to work, Mal. I want to go find my sister."

"Your sister could take on the entire population of this city and not break a sweat. She's _fine_."

"You don't know that."

"_Da shiong la se la ch'wohn tian!_ Boy, you fuss more'n my mama used to in calvin' season. They ain't even an hour late yet."

"You're as worried as I am."

"I'm the gorram captain!" Mal waved his arms. Jayne, still holding up the ship with his back, watched interestedly. "It's my job to worry all the time. You think I'm gonna let you wander off and get into a whole pile of _ma fuhn_? Well, you can't. Your sister'd tie me in a knot. Kaylee'd help her. No thanks."

"You can't–" Simon began hotly.

"Cap'n?"

Distraction at last. Mal breathed a sigh of relief as he turned to see Kaylee coming down _Serenity's_ ramp. Minute more, and he'd have had to hit the doctor to remind him who was in ruttin' command. Not that he objected to the hitting, but as previously acknowledged, it upset Kaylee. "What is it, little Kaylee?"

"Got a wave from Zoe." Her brow wrinkled in worry. "She says to send the mule."

"Is she all right?" It took Mal a moment to realize that Simon and Jayne chorused the words right along with him. _Ai ya_, but they were all turning into a bunch of mother hens over this baby thing...

Kaylee nodded. "Think so. She just said there was some cargo to pick up."

Mal had a sudden, horrific vision of mountains of diapers and baby clothes. "She say what, exactly?"

"No. Though she did mention there was a fellow wanted to talk to you."

_Oh God._ She'd bought out an entire store, and the manager wanted to make sure he could pay. Or worse. He wasn't sure what worse was, just now, but it was a definite possibility. "She say where she was?"

"Over on the west end of the Bazaar. Few blocks from that Alliance bar you wrecked last year."

"She didn't get into a fight, did she?" Mal asked anxiously, all thoughts of diapers and angry store owners flying right out of his skull.

"Didn't say. You want me to fire up the mule?"

"I'll do it. Jayne, you come with me." Simon started to protest, but Mal overrode him. "I want you here, Simon. That ain't a suggestion. I've already dragged you around this town enough for one day. Kaylee, find something for the doc to do. He don't need to be fussin' the whole time we're gone."

She nodded. "He and I can–"

"I don't want to know," Mal said hastily, holding up a hand. "Some things I really, really don't need to hear, little Kaylee."

"I was gonna say 'we can finish up some repairs in the kitchen.'" She squinted at him. "Why, what did you _think_ I was gonna say?"

"Never mind," Mal muttered. "Ain't important." He brushed past her up the ramp. "Hope you got that mule fixed up right."

He could feel Kaylee's glare burning holes in his coat and shot her a grin as he climbed into the mule, Jayne close behind. "See you in a bit," Mal said. "Try not to blow up the ship while we're gone."

* * *

The bar Kaylee'd referred to was about half a mile from where _Serenity_ sat in dock. Mal had fond memories of it. Best brawl he'd hand in years, last U-day–even better than on that little moon colony he, Zoe (and a complaining Jayne) had torn up the year before that. It was a memory that was gonna have to last him; he figured he didn't dare turn up in an Alliance friendly bar come this year's U-day. Might prove too big a temptation for the feds lookin' to pay him back for Miranda.

Zoe herself was a couple of blocks from the bar, at the mouth of an alley. She had her "there's crazy _lo suh_ going down but I ain't gonna comment" face on. She leaned against the wall at the alley's mouth, one hand resting on her belly, the other supporting her hogleg in the crook of her arm.

Mal set the brake on the mule and hopped down. "Trouble?" He pulled off his coat and tossed it on the seat. "Stay here, Jayne." Jayne grumbled a protest, but did as ordered.

"Not sure about that, sir." Zoe's face remained set, but she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, toward the alley. "Take a look."

Mal frowned. He knew Zoe better than most anybody in the 'verse. Her view of things, it was trouble or it wasn't. No in-betweens, no 'not sures.' He let his fingers slide down to rest on the butt of his pistol, and stepped around Zoe into the alley.

River stood a little further down, watching a skinny man in a long brown coat fuss around a blue wooden shed. She shot Mal a little smile as he approached, then turned her attention back to the stranger.

"What's the story, darlin'?" Mal asked softly, leaning one hand on the wall behind River. The other he kept near his gun.

The skinny man straightened abruptly, a brilliant grin creasing his face when he spotted the newcomer. "Hello," he said cheerily. "I'm the Doctor. You must be Captain Reynolds."

Mal eyed the man over, and felt a speck of uneasy curl through him. Couldn't figure _why_, exactly, but something about this fellow didn't set quite right. "Doctor, huh?" He raised his eyebrows and looked down at River, hoping for some clarifying. She didn't look at him, but kept her attention focused on the other man. "Got one of those already, and while I can't say I ain't beholden to him, boy's a load of trouble all on his own." He squinted at the stranger. "You got a name to go with the 'Doctor' part?"

The smile went crooked. "Not really. Just 'the Doctor.' Saves a lot of fuss and bother, and it's really the most useful conversation starter. Nearly everyone wants to know "Doctor who?" It never gets old." His smile didn't waver, but the look in his eye told Mal he wasn't going to get any further answers on the subject–not right now, anyway.

"All right, then, 'Doctor'–what are you doin' upsettin' my second in command?" Mal pushed off the wall to hook his thumbs into his belt, making sure the other man got a clear view of the pistol on his hip. To his credit, the Doctor did not so much as glance at the weapon.

The man's narrow features scrunched up. "Upsetting?" he demanded indignantly. "I did no such thing–well, all right, not on _purpose_, anyway. Your first mate–Zoe, isn't it?–was kind enough to help me out of a tight spot. Last thing I'd want to do is upset her! If anyone should be upset, it's me–I'm the one who got punched in the face!"

Mal glanced over his shoulder at Zoe. "You do that?"

"Wasn't me, sir. Thought about it, though."

"He talks a lot," River explained, ignoring the Doctor's offended huff.

Mal grunted his agreement. Hadn't known the man two minutes and he felt like his ear was gettin' talked off. "Who did the hitting, then? I'm guessin' it wasn't you, either, little albatross, 'cause he wouldn't be standing if–" He broke off, remembering the nearby bar. "Oh, don't tell me–you wore that big brown coat into the wrong part of the docks, didn't you? And someone took offense, and introduced you to their fist."

"Yes, I do recall there being some objection to my coat," said the Doctor, smiling. "You're quick. I like that." He tugged at the coat's lapels, studying it speculatively. "Funny, though. No one's ever had a problem with it before. Usually no one even notices what I'm wearing–not these days, anyway. Mind you, some of the stuff I've worn in the past..." He shook his head and jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. "I'm told," he said, drawing his words out, "that you're a man I need to see, Malcolm Reynolds. Why is that, I wonder?"

Mal blinked. "And who told you that?"

The Doctor raised both eyebrows and tilted his head to look significantly at River.

Mal looked down. "River?"

She turned and prodded a hard little finger into his breastbone. Ignoring Mal's quiet "ow" she said, "I told you it was coming. Now he's here." And with that she brushed past him and wandered away toward the mule. By the look on her face as she went, Mal guessed she planned to annoy Jayne for a bit.

Mal looked back to the Doctor, feeling more than a bit baffled. The Doctor was watching River, his expression faintly puzzled. "She's...a bit odd, isn't she?" he asked Mal.

"Could say that," Mal muttered. "Don't understand half of what she's sayin' most of the time." Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Might as well get it over with. "All right, Doctor–what is it you're wantin'?"

The Doctor smiled again, but this one was bitter. "Oh, I want a great many things, Captain," he said softly. "Most of them impossible. But we so rarely get what we want, isn't that right?" The acid smile softened a little. "For the moment, though, I'd settle for you allowing me to tag along with you and your crew for a bit." Dark eyes twinkled. "Funny, that. Usually it's people tagging about after _me_–be a bit of a change. That's good. Change is good. Refreshing." He bounced a little on his toes, grinning again. "Keeps life from going stale."

Mal stared hard at the other man. _Why do I always attract the weird ones_, he wondered briefly. "You sayin' you want to sign on as a _passenger_?"

"Well, I wouldn't make a very good cook and I'm rubbish at piloting. Though, mind you, I make a mean cup of tea, and I'm not half bad at fixing things..."

"On my ship?"

"No, on the chief magistrate of the Judoon's ship–yes, of course your ship!" The Doctor lifted his chin, challenging. "Is that a problem, Captain?"

Mal scowled. "I don't know you, Doctor–and you ain't exactly forthcoming with the information. Not even a name. You upset Zoe–she don't look it, but I can tell you've fussed her some. She don't get fussed, not 'less it's something she can't classify. And Zoe's damn good at classifyin' folk." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You got my pilot saying odd things about you, too. Now, she may be a bit tweaked and talk funny anyway–but she don't spout oddness about just _anybody_. And I gotta consider the fact that the _last_ time I took on passengers who didn't pass out much information, I ended up gettin' chased all over the 'verse. By the time that was said and done, me and mine lost more'n our share of loved ones. So you tell me, _Doctor_–why should I let you set foot on my ship?"

The Doctor regarded him steadily for a long, long moment. Mal's skin crawled under the intensity of that dark gaze. He felt as though he were being examined down to the very core of his being, his soul laid bare before eyes more knowing than any person's had a right to be. It took all his willpower not to look away from that eerie-ass gaze. Instead, he glared back, setting his jaw stubbornly.

Finally the Doctor spoke, his voice deep and grave. "You are going to let me on your ship, Malcolm Reynolds, because I am here for a reason. I don't know what it is–not yet–but I can promise you this: _it is important_. Somewhere out there, there is something terrible happening–something I can stop, or help you stop. I can't promise you I won't bring danger to you and yours, because I don't like to make promises I can't keep. And I can't claim that I'm not dangerous. But I can promise you this: I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm. And my power is _considerable_."

Mal felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It didn't make him happy. Funny thing was, though...Not a cloud in sight, nothing but hot blue sky overhead–but as the Doctor spoke, Mal could smell rain and lightning.

Like an oncoming storm.

Mal swallowed, hard, and found his voice. "I'll hold you to that promise," he said, not quite believing what he was saying. Sense said he wouldn't let this man anywhere _near_ his ship–but sense seemed to have gone for a walk without him. "And I'll make you one in return." He leaned forward. "If you've lied to me, if you try to hurt my crew or betray my trust–_I will end you._"

The Doctor held his eyes for a heartbeat longer, then his face broke into a daft grin. "Right, then, that's settled!" He rubbed his hands together. "This is going to be loads of fun!" He paused, then said, in a slightly worried tone, "You do have room on your ship for my box, don't you? I know it's a bit odd, but I can't let the thing out of my sight. Bit of a family heirloom and all."

The moment passed, and the only thing in Mal's nostrils was the smell of dust and rotting garbage heated by a Persephone summer. He shook his head a little, wondering what the hell he'd just agreed to, and why he was having hallucinations in his _nose_.

He sighed. River was getting downright contagious.

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

_**Huen Dahn: **_**Jerk, bastard**

_**Da shiong la se la ch'wohn tian**_**: Explosive diarrhea of an elephant**

_**Ma fuhn**_**: Trouble**

_**Lo suh**_**: Garbage, crap**


	6. Chapter 6: Passenger

**Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews! I'm writing as best I can, though I hit a rough patch a couple days ago. Still, there's one more complete chapter, and if we're all lucky I'll be able to stay a chapter ahead of myself. :D Unfortunately, finals are closing fast, so we may have a bit of a delay. Keep the reviews coming! They inspire me to write more...:p**

* * *

"The trials you are now facing  
They are not greater than your will  
For there is nothing under heaven  
You cannot overcome  
See the door that lies before you  
And know this too shall pass."  
–The Cruxshadows, "Eye of the Storm"

The Doctor watched, a little anxiously, as Malcolm Reynolds and the big mercenary called Jayne wrestled the TARDIS into place among the cargo in _Serenity's_ hold. It was silly to be worried, because it would take a great deal more than being _dropped_ to damage his ship, but still...He was only grateful the captain hadn't insisted on seeing inside the blue box before loading it. Malcolm Reynolds struck him as a supremely stubborn and mistrusting man, and the Doctor didn't fancy going through the "it's bigger on the inside" round of explanations with a hostile human. Mal Reynolds looked just the sort to shoot someone if he felt it was necessary. Maybe even if it wasn't. The Doctor had been shot before. He really, _really _hadn't enjoyed it. (Especially the bit with the morgue and the shroud. And the toe tag. _That_ had not been one of his finer moments. He still wondered sometimes how that poor orderly had explained things...)

Being around other people helped ease the ache, especially with the prospect of adventure before him. Only he kept turning to catch Rose's reaction and delight in her wonder, or ask her thoughts on some thing or other, and instead found empty space where she ought to be.

He missed her terribly.

That was good. Pain was good. (Ha. Someday he might actually believe that.) She was still alive, still fighting. Just...not with him.

"Box of yours should be secure enough." The captain's voice broke into the Doctor's thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, he smiled at the other man's approach. "Seems sturdy enough."

"Thank you, Captain," said the Doctor, genuinely grateful. "That box is very important to me." Ignoring the odd look Mal gave him he hurtled on. "Now, where did you say we were going?"

"I didn't." Mal hooked one hand into his belt, pushing the other back through his hair. "We're headed to Paquin. Got a job there."

"Oh, right, Paquin. Of course. Lovely place," said the Doctor, who had never heard of Paquin in his life. "Of course, _any_ place is better than this, uh, hole." He waved a hand at the colorful crowds pressing past _Serenity_. Actually, he found it fascinating. If he just knew where he _was_, he'd be even happier.

Mal snorted. "Persephone ain't exactly paradise, but I ain't rightly sure Paquin's much better. It's supposed to have the best sunsets in the 'verse–but that don't mean much when a carnie's tryin' to cut your throat."

The Doctor lifted his eyebrows. "Carnie? You mean, as in carnival?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that." Mal squinted at a small squad of heavily armed men in dark body armor trotting past. The Doctor, glancing down, saw the other man's hand had stray toward the pistol he wore strapped to his thigh. The squad disappeared into the crowd, and Mal relaxed noticeably.

The Doctor beamed. "Oh, I love a carnival! Haven't been to one–oh, not in _years_! I always liked those little–whaddya call 'em–those swirly fried thingys. With the powdered sugar on top."

Mal blinked. "You mean funnel cakes?"

"Yes! Funnel cakes. Very nearly as amazing as those edible ball bearings." Oh dear. The captain was giving him the "you're absolutely nutters, but I'm going to humor you because I'm a reasonably civilized person" look. Perhaps it was time to tone it back a bit. Another reason to miss Rose; she was so good at jabbing him when he got too wound up or too rude or too distracted. "Ah...so when do we leave?"

The captain consulted a battered pocket watch he pulled from somewhere inside his coat. (Brown, the Doctor noted, and made a mental note to find out what was so bloody significant about the color later. Soon as he figured out a way to ask without looking a complete idiot.) "We'll break atmo in an hour," said Mal. "Once I'm sure I ain't gonna leave anyone behind."

"People will wander off," the Doctor said sympathetically.

The other man nodded. "Don't seem to matter how often I tell 'em to _stay put_, there's always some reason or other they gotta go somewhere else."

"Human nature. I'm pretty certain it's hardwired into the DNA."

A half-smile creased Mal's face. "Maybe." He glanced over his shoulder. "Better go make sure Simon ain't plotting revenge for lettin' his sister wander off," he muttered. To the Doctor he said, "Kaylee'll show you the passenger quarters and give you a tour of the ship."

"Thank you. Who's Kaylee?"

"Mechanic. You can't miss her–small, probably covered in engine grease. Big smile." Mal grinned suddenly. "She'll probably hug you."

"Oh, good. I like hugs."

Mal gave him a baffled "you're weird" look, but nodded politely and strode away. The Doctor cast one last glance around the chaos of the docks, then headed into the ship to look for this cheerful mechanic. He really wanted a hug.

* * *

Inara smiled as she heard the muttered cursing and stomping outside her shuttle door. Mal, trying to decide whether or not to bother her with a need to talk. He always operated under the idea that she couldn't hear him out there. It was a bit sweet, actually. Annoying, but sweet.

She set aside her book and rose from the low sofa, crossing to open the shuttle door. Mal, shuffling around on the walkway outside, froze. He looked slightly startled, as he always did when she answered before he could knock. Inara said nothing, giving him a chance to make up his mind whether or not he wanted to risk a conversation.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, after a brief, awkward silence.

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. He did so, eyes sweeping briefly over the shuttle as though he expected her to be hiding a client under the bed or behind a curtain. It was an old habit, dating from her first days aboard _Serenity_. There hadn't ever been anyone hiding then, either.

There were fewer hiding places now. After Miranda and the battle, they'd stopped by the Training House just long enough to allow Inara to grab a single load of personal possessions and say goodbye to Sheydra, leaving before Alliance authorities came looking for them. It had been haphazard packing at best, just what they could grab in a single load. Compared to its previous luxury, the shuttle looked absolutely Spartan.

"Have a seat," said Inara, doing so herself.

Mal sat down without protest. Things were easier between them now, compared to before. They could even have the occasional conversations _without_ a fight–like the other night, at the table. Inara strongly suspected their new ease had everything to do with the fact that she was currently suspended from the Guild. She really wasn't certain how she felt about that knowledge, any more than she was certain of her feelings regarding her suspension. The Guild had yet to make known to her their terms for reinstatement.

Mal studied his hands, clasped loosely between his knees, for a long moment. Then he said, "We're takin' on a passenger."

Inara felt a small shock of surprise. "That's...unexpected." To say the least. Mal had been _very _vocal about never, ever taking on passengers again. "I'm surprised you agreed."

"Me too," Mal muttered darkly. "Not sure how that happened, exactly." He sighed, and looked up at her. "I was wonderin' if maybe you'd take a look at him, tell me what you think."

Inara blinked. "Why?"

"'Cause somethin' about him don't set right with me _or_ Zoe, but neither of us can suss out a reason he might be a threat. Me n' Zoe, we're good at readin' those as present physical danger. You, 'Nara–you're good at readin' folk, period."

From anyone else, she'd call it base flattery. From him... "Why take him on at all, if he bothers you?"

Mal offered her a wry smile. "Apparently, he's somethin' to do with River and her storm. She insists it's important he come, and I don't much care to argue with a girl who can beat me into a puddle of goo."

Inara chuckled softly. "It's never stopped you before."

"Yeah, well, I'm tryin' to acquire wisdom in my old age. Is it working?" The smile broadened into a genuine grin, all the more charming for its rarity.

"I'll let you know." Inara smiled back. They sat like that for several moments, just smiling at each other. It was times like this that Inara treasured, more than all the wealth and society in the universe.

Alas, they couldn't last. Eventually one of them would become uncomfortable and say something foolish. She preferred to head that off whenever possible. "So who is this mysterious passenger?"

Mal's smile faded, and he let out a snort. "'Mysterious' is right. Calls himself 'the Doctor.'"

"Doctor who?"

"Nothin' else. Just 'the Doctor.'"

Inara had a sudden vision of a small, creepy little old man–rather like Mal's description of the crimelord Niska. He probably leered and rubbed his hands together a lot. "He didn't give any name?"

"Zoe told me he said we could call him 'John Smith' if we absolutely had to." Mal slanted her an ironic look. "But it's pretty obvious he'd rather answer to 'Doctor.'"

"He sounds strange."

"Strange don't half cover it. He's made Zoe downright uneasy. Jayne don't like him–not that _that's_ anything new. Simon ain't met him–I think he's sulking somewhere–and I haven't asked Kaylee yet. He makes me all _sorts _of twitchy."

"What does River say about him?"

"River refuses to talk in anything but River-speak concernin' the man. You can imagine my pleasure." He grimaced.

Inara smoothed the silk of her dress over her knees. "Well, I'll certainly speak to him. Where is he now?"

"I left him looking for Kaylee to give him a tour of _Serenity_. She's probably talkin' his ear off in the engine room, if I know little Kaylee."

"All right." She hesitated. "What do you want me to say to him?"

"About what?"

"About my position."

Mal's mouth tightened. "You're part of the crew, ain't you?" he said, a little harshly.

"I really _look_ the part, Mal," she said quietly. A little sarcastically.

His face darkened, but he took a deep breath and made a visible effort to regain his sense of humor. "Fine. You can borrow a pair of my suspenders." The smile didn't reach his eyes, but it was a peace offering. He didn't want to fight about it.

She offered him a thin smile of her own, careful not to show how deeply pleased she was at his self-control. "Somehow, I don't think it'll go with my dress. But thank you for the offer." She looked away. "I'll...tell him I'm the ship's counselor or something."

Mal let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Y'know, 'Nara, he's just weird enough he might buy that."

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

**Amazingly, there are none this chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7: First Impressions

**Author's Note: Y'all will be glad to know that this story is really rolling. :) No delays in the near future, at any rate! I'm glad you are all enjoying this tale as much as I am. Your reviews are the brightest spots in my day! Ta very much.**

* * *

The Doctor figured that if he could just bottle and distribute the aggressive cheerfulness that was Kaylee Frye, he might just have a shot at solving all the universe's problems. Or, at the very least, making an ginormous fortune on the intergalactic drug market. Great _stars_, but she was a happy person. Rose would have absolutely _loved_ her. The Doctor was rapidly developing an affection for her himself.

At the moment, she was lecturing him very earnestly on reasons why he should _not_ take his ship to dockside repairmen.

"...though you _never_ wanna trust dirtside mechanics. They can turn most anything into a _ri shao gou shi bing_, you give 'em half a chance. It's a real pity we didn't meet up earlier, I'd'a been happy to take a look at her for ya. What kinda ship did you say you fly?"

"Ah...I didn't, exactly." Time to change the subject. If he could. This girl was seriously passionate about her ships. She'd probably adore the TARDIS, but now was not the time to open _that_ can of mysteries. "This is a beautiful ship. How long have you flown with her?"

Kaylee beamed at him. Quickest way to her heart, the Doctor decided. Just compliment _Serenity_. He quite understood, as he was inclined to take a shine to anyone who said nice things about the TARDIS. "'Bout eight years now," she said. "This here's the best ship in the 'verse."

"I can believe it. What class is it again?"

"Firefly."

"I've never sailed in a Firefly," said the Doctor.

"They'll fly forever, you got even a half-decent mechanic," Kaylee enthused. She drew herself up proudly. "And I'm more'n half-decent."

The Doctor reached out to run his fingers over a pipe. There was a rough beauty to her. _Serenity_ wasn't just a means of moving through space, she was a _home_. More than just good engineering kept her in the sky. He could feel love in every part of her, every rivet and joint. He hadn't been on many ships that felt like this. His own was one of the few. "Tell me, Kaylee–why is she called _Serenity_?"

"Cap'n named her," she said, watching the motion of his hands approvingly. "After the Battle of Serenity Valley."

The Doctor took a guess. "He fought in the battle?"

Kaylee nodded. "Worst battle of the war." Her bright little face clouded. "Can't imagine how awful it musta been, stuck there for six weeks with all the dead and wounded. Cap'n and Zoe never talk about it, but they was the only ones in their platoon to get out alive. Kept a buncha others alive, too, Browncoats _and_ Alliance."

"The captain was a 'browncoat' then?"

Kaylee looked indignant. "'Course! Ain't no way the Cap'n was Alliance!" She frowned at him. "You're wearin' a brown coat yourself, Doctor–and you're old enough to have fought in the war. Weren't you an Independent?"

He gave her his most blinding smile. "Oh, absolutely" he said, with perfect truth. He'd fought in a War, and he was most _certainly _independent. And plenty old enough, oh yes.

Her face relaxed. "Oh, good. Cap'n don't like them as supported Unification." She tilted her head, grinning impishly, and added, "'cept maybe Inara."

"Inara? Who's that?"

"That must be my cue," said a mellow female voice. "I'm Inara Serra."

The Doctor turned, and just managed to keep his jaw from sagging. The woman standing in the engine room's doorway was...well, she was simply _stunning_. Flawless skin, shining black hair, magnificent eyes. Wasn't just outward beauty, either–to the Doctor's perception, she radiated strength and compassion, kindness and humor and just enough darkness to keep things interesting.

"Wow," he said. "_You_ are absolutely beautiful. Completely glorious."

Behind him, Kaylee giggled.

"No, seriously," said the Doctor, seriously, and winked at the girl over his shoulder. "How did Captain Reynolds manage to get _four_ gorgeous women on his ship? He doesn't seem all that charming."

Inara's full lips curved into a smile. "Oh, he has his moments," she said. She glided forward, extending a beautifully manicured hand. "I'm pleased to meet you...?"

The Doctor took her fingers in his and, impulsively, bowed over them, brushing her knuckles with his lips. "I'm the Doctor," he said. "And I'm _extremely _pleased to meet _you_."

* * *

While she had not really expected the sinister little man she'd envisioned, Inara was a bit surprised at the reality. She hadn't expected young, or charming. Or quite so enthusiastic.

As a Companion, she was more than accustomed to men (and women) waxing poetic about her beauty and grace. She struck men speechless, and it was a rare occurrence indeed that she did not draw all eyes to her as she passed. It was, she admitted, only to be expected.

The Doctor was neither speechless nor particularly poetic in his compliments–and the really strange thing was the fact that, while he was very clearly admiring her in a man-appreciating-woman fashion, she did not sense any serious sexual desire from him. As though his own sexuality were something he had complete and total control over, and acknowledged only with wry irony.

Mal was right. There was something _very_ unsettling about this man.

Inara was far too good a Companion to allow any trace of her thoughts to show on her face, keeping the gracious smile intact and perfectly sincere. "The captain told me we'd taken on a new traveler. It's always wonderful to meet new people."

"Oh yes," said the Doctor happily. "It's my favorite thing in the universe. New people, new planets, new new thoughts." He smiled, flashing a pair of deep dimples. It was, Inara noted, an extremely charming smile. She had the feeling he was perfectly aware of it, too. "Inara is a lovely name," he continued. "It suits you."

She smiled her thanks and turned to Kaylee. "Have you shown him the passenger quarters yet?"

Kaylee blushed. "Uh...no. I got sorta sidetracked."

Inara reached out to touch the younger woman's cheek with affection. "I understand. Engines are far more important."

Kaylee wrinkled her nose, then stuck out her tongue. "You're better at it anyway. The guest stuff, makin' 'em feel all at home and everything."

"I don't know about that." Inara offered her arm to the Doctor. "Shall we?"

He took her arm and tucked it in his, beaming still. "We certainly shall." He looked at Kaylee. "_Serenity_ is gorgeous," he told her. "You should be proud."

Kaylee glowed with pleasure.

As they made their way down the corridor, Inara remarked casually, "You're quite good at that."

"At what?"

"Charming people. Making them feel good about themselves."

"Oh, well," he said modestly. "I've just had loads of practice is all. And it doesn't exactly cost me anything to be nice, especially when the person is as lovely as little Kaylee."

"No, I suppose not." Inara kept her voice light, though her thoughts were racing, utilizing every bit of training she'd ever had in reading body language and vocal inflection, trying to gain some sense of the man beside her. "Where are you from, Doctor?" she asked, watching his profile.

Faint lines at the corner of the eye nearest her deepened. "Oh, all over, really," he said. "Wanderlust, that's me."

Evasive. "Have you ever been to Sihnon?"

"Sihnon? Oh...lovely place. Bit quaint, though."

He was lying now, she was sure of it. But why?

He turned his head a little, catching her eye. A dimple put in an appearance as he smiled ruefully. Knowingly. "Actually, I'm lying," he said. "I've never been there in my life. Is it nice?"

Caught off guard by his admission, Inara stumbled a little over her reply. "Well...yes. I haven't been back there in a long time, though."

"You didn't leave it on good terms."

Sweet Buddha, he was reading her just like she was reading _him._ "I wouldn't say that," she said coolly.

"I see. None of my business." He winked at her. Inara put up her serene mask, refusing to let him see just how much he'd unsettled her. He went on. "I'm curious, though–what do you do on the ship? If you'll forgive the observation, you're not exactly dressed for hauling cargo."

She arched an eyebrow. "I'm the ship's counselor," she said.

He stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. "Of course you are." He slipped his arm free of hers to shove both hands in his pockets, slanting a shrewd gaze down at her. "And I imagine you're wondering now just what you're going to tell the captain about this conversation–and that he's surely right about me. I _am_ odd, and I _promise _I'm dangerous."

Inara felt her expression freeze. She had no idea what to say.

The Doctor's face softened into a small smile. "You can tell him I meant what I said before."

"And what was that, Doctor?"

"Oh, you'll have to ask him." The Doctor ducked a low-hanging wire as they started down the stairs leading to the infirmary and common area. "But I'll assure _you_ that, while I may be dangerous, not to mention a bit weird, I am _not_ a threat. Not to this ship and crew, anyway. From what I've seen so far, you're just the sort of people I like."

Inara frowned slightly at his phrasing. "And what becomes of those people you do _not_ like?"

"Well...I ignore them. Mostly." He squinted at the room around them. "This ship's a bit confusing, isn't it? Where are we now?"

"You didn't answer my question."

He arched an eyebrow. "No, I didn't. You'll find I'm very good at that, avoiding answers. And _you_ haven't answered _my_ question: where are we? Is this–oh, is that an infirmary?" He darted forward to the infirmary doors. "Look at that. I've got one on my ship, but I lost it...oh, a long time ago. Never did me much good anyway, I almost never get injured when I'm actually _in_ my ship. Bit inconvenient, really, but I suppose that's life for you." He gave the room a once over. "Bit creepy, isn't it? I hate hospitals, though, and this is definitely hospital-like."

"But...you're a doctor."

"No, I'm _the_ Doctor. Not actually medical, not really. I did study medicine once–well, I use the term 'medicine' loosely...but an M.D.? No, not me. I can put a band-aid on someone if I have to, and I don't get woozy at the sight of blood, but don't ask me to do anything with a needle, I'm absolute rubbish."

"If you don't practice medicine, why call yourself 'doctor'?"

Inara turned to see Simon emerging from his cabin. He gave her a polite smile of greeting. She returned it. "Simon. Are you speaking to Mal yet?"

The young doctor shrugged. "Maybe. River didn't actually get into trouble, so I suppose I don't have an excuse to be upset. And I probably should learn to let River take care of herself a little more." He looked back at the Doctor expectantly.

The Doctor leaned against the infirmary door. "Oh...that wasn't a rhetorical question then, about my name?"

"'Doctor' isn't a name," said Simon. "It's a title."

"Oh, I can tell this conversation is going to get _very_ old before long. Why the hang-up about names? They're so overrated. I mean, if I'd told everyone my name was 'John Smith' there wouldn't be half so much argument, even if it was a complete lie. I. Am. The Doctor. End of story. Not going to answer to anything else, so just _deal_ with it. And to answer your question: there are lots of kinds of doctors that have nothing at all to do with medicine."

Simon folded his arms. "All right. What kind of doctor are you, then?"

"Oh, bit of this, bit of that." He smiled brilliantly. "Everything, really. Except advanced medicine and, possibly, aeronautics."

"And what does that mean?"

"I can't fly. Really, I can't." The Doctor straightened. "Now," he said to Inara, "_please_ tell me I've met everyone on this ship. I'm getting very sick of people poking and prodding and asking personal questions. You hu–people are so bloody _nosy_. So tell me...where's my room?"

* * *

**Chinese Translations for Chapter 7:**

_**Ri shao gou shi bing**_** Pile of sun baked dog poo**


	8. Chapter 8: Underfoot

**Author's Note: Thanks again for the reviews! Questions, comments, and good persecutions are always welcome. :D I have to give some thanks and credit to the writers of the _Serenity_ RPG core rulebook. They included a marvelous "Gorram Chinese" glossary that has been a TREMENDOUS help. **

** Thanks again, and enjoy!**

* * *

"Jayne says we're gonna heist an _alien_." Kaylee slid into the chair across from Mal. "That true, Cap'n?" 

Mal rubbed his forehead. Barely broke atmo an hour ago, and already he was wishin' he'd never _heard_ of this _shiang jing ping_ job. "That's the story, little Kaylee."

"You think it might really _be_ an alien?"

"I seriously doubt it," interrupted Simon, busy in the kitchen. From the smell of it, he was doing something criminal to foodstuffs again. Mal'd always thought a doctor had to know chemistry to do his job–and wasn't cooking chemistry? "Aliens don't exist."

Ma"Frankly, I don't care if it's a pickled cow. Badger's offerin' good coin for us to bring it back, and we sorely need the work. And it's better than Jayne's idea of a job."

Kaylee frowned. "But, Cap'n–what if it _is_ an alien?"

"What if it is?"

"Well...wouldn't we be, sorta, _kidnappin'_ it?" She wrapped a lock of brown-gold hair around one finger. "An' even if it _ain't_, whatever it is, it's alive, ain't it?"

"What're you gettin' at, _meimei_?" Mal had a fairly good idea where she was going with this, and he didn't like the look of it.

"It ain't right to steal it just so's some rich _huen dahn_ can stick it in a cage for folks to stare at. What if it was human?"

"What if it isn't?"

They all jumped. The Doctor stood in the galley door. He'd shed the long brown overcoat and loosened his tie and had made a futile attempt to smooth down his hair.

Mal scowled. "What're you doin' up here?"

"Well, I was feeling a bit peckish..." The Doctor half-smiled. "I'm very curious, though–what if it really _was_ an alien, alive and clever as you and me?" He considered. "Well, clever as you, anyway. What would you do then? Would you steal it from one 'collector' just to turn it over to another? Just because it isn't human? Or would that matter?"

Mal folded his arms and leaned the chair back. He couldn't deny he'd wrestled with that same question–well, maybe not the 'what if it's real' part, that was ridiculous–but if it were a sideshow freak or somethin'. A person, not a pickled cow.

What he _didn't_ like was this over-curious stranger strollin' in and asking the same questions. "Job's crew business," he said. "Not yours."

"Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Couldn't really avoid it. This isn't all that big a ship." The Doctor moved to pull a chair out from the table and slouch carelessly into it. "Call it a...philosophical interest."

"Well, I ain't interested," Mal snapped, getting up. "There's a job to be done." He fixed Kaylee with a stern look. "Right?"

"Sure, Cap'n," she said reluctantly.

He sighed. "Look–'til I know better, I'm gonna operate on the idea that the 'verse _didn't_ suddenly turn upside down on us. Aliens ain't real–and the one we've been hired to 'pick up'" he shot a look at the Doctor, "ain't nothin' but a hoax. If it turns out it ain't, or if it's some poor soul–well, we'll face that when we get there. _Dohn ma_?"

She nodded, looking somewhat happier.

"And don't go blabbin' everything to our nosy guest, huh? He don't need to know everything."

"Oi! I'm sitting right here," the Doctor protested.

Mal ignored him and ducked through the door into the fore deck, making for the stairs leading up to the bridge.

River was curled up in the pilot's seat, watching the black. "You shouldn't be rude," she remarked.

"That's my job. Well, all right, it's Jayne's job, but he's elsewhere right now." Mal sank into the other chair. "I don't like him, River. The Doctor, I mean. He's..."

"Unsettling, I know."

"You know why that is, River?"

She smiled at him over her updrawn knees. "Yes."

"But you ain't gonna tell me, are you?"

"He'll tell you himself, when you're ready. When he's ready."

"I really don't like mysteries, darlin'."

"Reading the last page spoils the story," said River, with what Mal felt was exaggerated patience. "You'll just have to wait and see."

"Yeah, figured it'd be somethin' like that." Mal stretched. "I suppose I ought to go see what 'Nara has to say about him. 'Nother hour or so, and you can get Jayne or someone to relieve you up here, grab some dinner. I mean it–I want you to eat. You're too thin, darlin'."

River nodded, and turned her eyes back to the stars outside. Mal watched her for a moment. He never was sure what to think around her. She was part of his crew, and she was family, and she followed his orders (most of the time)–but he was never certain just _why_. Girl with her abilities, followin' a washed up old soldier like him...

Didn't bear fussin' over. Not right now, anyway. "Stay awake, little albatross," he told her, ignored her offended glare, and turned to go back down the stairs.

Back in the galley he found Kaylee giggling over something the Doctor had said. Simon was scowling something fierce and poking at his food. The Doctor seemed completely at ease, jacket unbuttoned, tie dangling loosely around his thin neck, grinning like a loon. Mal couldn't help smiling a bit at Simon's obvious jealousy. It was clear Kaylee'd taken a real shine to the newcomer, and Simon was very not-happy about it. Understandable, really: the Doctor, though odd, was smart, funny, good looking (in a skinny, geeky sort of way), and not so much older than they. What was more, he was damned charming–something Simon surely was not. Best Simon could manage was smart and good looking–and Mal had his reservations about the smart. And, of course, add insult to injury and the man claimed the title "Doctor" which, until now, had been Simon's sole property aboard _Serenity_. Little wonder he felt threatened.

Mal gave some thought to taking the young(er) doctor aside and offering him some reassurance about his place in little Kaylee's life–but decided against it. For one thing, he wasn't at all sure Kaylee _wouldn't _throw Simon over for someone who could get through a conversation without stuffing his foot in his mouth; he'd never been entirely sure if Kaylee's feelings for Simon were genuine love, or simply a desire for something _not_ run on batteries.

For another, it was entirely too funny watching the boy squirm.

Kaylee looked up as Mal re-entered the galley. "Cap'n! The Doctor says he knows all sorts of stuff 'bout aliens."

"Yeah?" Mal didn't bother to hide the skepticism in his voice. "That include ways of doctorin' mutated farm animals to look like somethin' from the depths of space?"

"We weren't discussing that, though I _do_ know some tricks there, too," said the Doctor, unruffled. "You might say aliens are a bit of a hobby for me."

"Read a lot of science fiction, do you?"

"Read a lot of things," the Doctor replied, smiling broadly. "Though I prefer Dickens to Asimov. Both are brilliant but Dickens–now _there _was a man with backbone. I like backbone."

Mal tried to look as though he recognized the names. Dickens sounded vaguely familiar–somethin' his mama probably tried to make him read when he was a kid. "Yeah, well, if you don't mind, I'd like to chat with my crew with_out_ an eavesdropper." He glanced pointedly at the door.

Kaylee stirred. "Aw, c'mon, Cap'n–maybe he can help!"

Mal gritted his teeth. "No ruttin' way. He ain't a part of this crew, Kaylee, he's a gorram passenger. And way too nosy a one at that."

"I'm still sitting right here," the Doctor remarked. "Not deaf, either."

"There's work to be done," Mal said. "D'you mind?" He looked at the door again.

The Doctor didn't budge. "Not really." He eyed Mal's darkening face. "Look, Captain–as I said before, this isn't that big a ship. I'm sure to find out all about it anyway, at some point." His eyes shifted briefly to Kaylee, and Mal thought several very rude things about easily-charmed mechanics. "And you never know–maybe I _can_ help." Laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes put in a brief appearance. "I've been known to commit theft a time or two myself."

Mal snorted. 'Long time.' Man wasn't _that_ old, maybe only a year or two younger than Mal himself. "What, you steal candy as a kid or something?"

"Something a bit...bigger, but you get the idea."

"Don't need your help, Doctor. But if you want to listen in on a lot of boring talk, I suppose I got no reason to stop you, long as you keep your mouth shut." He turned back to Kaylee. "I need to go speak with 'Nara. Badger gave us what information he had on the target; it's up on the bridge. Want you to have a look, see what might need doin' on the technical side of things."

"_Chr ah._" She tilted her head slyly at him. "Whatcha goin' to talk to 'Nara about?"

It was ridiculous, but Mal felt his ears get hot. "None of your gorram business, Kaylee. You got work to do, so get movin'."

She rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. She shot a parting smile at the Doctor as she left. Simon's scowl turned positively thunderous. It did not improve when the Doctor leaned over to eye his plate. "What is that?" he asked. "It smells dreadful."

The Doctor stuck his hands in his pockets and hummed under his breath as he picked his way across the catwalk suspended over _Serenity's_ cargo bay. It really was a beautiful ship, full of character and promise that more than made up for its lack of smooth lines or decor. And the crew! He'd met a lot of crews of varying shapes and sizes over his long life. Starship crews and submarine crews, happy crews and crazy crews...There'd been this one bunch of bloodthirsty pirate robots on a steam-driven spaceship that he would _never_ forget. He had the feeling he'd never forget this lot, either (though, he hoped devoutly, for reasons other than trying to shove him out an airlock).

Why was he here, though? He hadn't seen anything overtly wrong yet. Usually the screaming started minutes after he landed the TARDIS. This all seemed a bit...well, _boring_. The crew of _Serenity_ was a fascinating lot, to be sure–but when all was said and done they were pretty ordinary humans. The only odd note was the young pilot, River, who kept saying things that she _shouldn't know_. Or seemed to. She struck the Doctor as being a bit nuts, and crazy people often appeared to exhibit unusual insight by simple virtue that they spouted nonsense more or less constantly and were bound to hit the nail on the head _sometimes._ He really couldn't be sure.

Raised voices caught his wandering attention, and he stopped, propping one shoulder on a support, eavesdropping shamelessly. Mal and the "counselor," sounded like. They were somewhere close–probably through the door a few feet away from where he stood. One of the shuttles, he guessed.

"All I'm saying, 'Nara, is that it ain't exactly specific."

"Reading body language isn't like reading a map, Mal. All I can give you is my impressions, my interpretations. And those are telling me that he's had serious control training of _some_ kind."

Oh, they were talking about him! The Doctor grinned and leaned more fully on the railing. Discussions about him when he was supposedly not around were always _so_ entertaining.

"Control like how?" demanded Mal.

"It's hard to pinpoint...he seems so _open_–but at the same time he was giving next to nothing away. Nothing he didn't want me to see, anyway. That requires a lot of training."

Or, thought the Doctor, merely a lot of practice. Almost a millennium worth, in fact. And_ he _had been considered pathetically easy to read compared to most of his kind...

"Training? You mean, as in Companion?" There was a note in Mal's voice that intrigued the Doctor. Wariness, revulsion...something in between?

"I...can't say."

"Why? He not pretty enough to be a Companion?" Oh, that was definite hostility. The Doctor wondered what a Companion was–well, he had some ideas, but preferred not to indulge in gutter-speculation without more information. He might be rude, but he _did_ try to stay a gentleman...

"Beauty isn't the only thing that defines a Companion, Mal," said Inara severely. "And there's nothing wrong with his looks. He just doesn't have the right grace of manner. He's too...volatile. But that doesn't mean he hasn't had Academy training. I can't be sure."

"I don't want another Saffron on board, 'Nara."

"Neither do I." Her voice heated with frustration. "I just can't get a good _read_ on him. I got close–but he slipped away. I think he caught on to what I was doing. And he just didn't _react_ to me like he should have."

"Hang on–are you upset because he might have had Academy training, or are you just mad 'cause he didn't fall at your feet?"

The Doctor winced.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Inara, her own voice frosty.

"Oh, come on. You're upset because he proved immune to your wiles."

Any minute now, she was going to hit him. Had there been someone around taking bets, the Doctor would have put ten quid on it.

"My _wiles_? I was doing you a _favor_, you _chwen joo_!"

The Doctor's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't expected a lady like Inara to come out with something like _that_. Bit rude, that.

Inara's voice was edging toward shrill. "And can I remind you just who it was who fell for _Saffron's_ wiles? Or were you looking for a repeat performance?"

"Whoa, now, Inara, I didn't mean–"

"_Get out_."

Oh, that was his cue to move along. The Doctor didn't fancy being on the receiving end of Mal's reaction should the captain come out and find his unsettling guest loitering. It would almost certainly involve a fist. Possibly two. He'd already been hit once today, thank you _so_ much. (And he had the feeling that Mal could hit a whole lot harder than the woman at the pub.)

Moving silently on his sneakers (wonderful choice of footwear; he couldn't imagine why he hadn't used them before) the Doctor hurried toward the stairs leading down to the cargo hold. The captain would probably be unhappy to find him down there, but it was better than getting caught outside the shuttle.

He reached the bottom just as the shuttle door hissed open. The Doctor resisted the urge to look up, instead strolling casually toward the TARDIS, hands back in his pockets, whistling merrily. He heard Mal's heavy boots clang as he stomped away from the shuttle, then stop midway across the catwalk.

The Doctor reached out to lay a hand on his ship. The wood was rough and warm beneath his hand. He sent an inquiry, and received a quiet murmur of contentment. The TARDIS was entering a recharge cycle, drawing on the background radiation outside _Serenity_ to boost her power. The extrapolator was the ship's main source of power these days, but the Doctor disliked letting it run when he wasn't about to keep an eye on it. It wasn't the most reliable piece of tech in the universe...

"You got business down there?" a harsh voice demanded.

The Doctor pasted an innocent smile on his face and turned around to look up at Mal. "Just checking," he said. "It's all right I'm down here, isn't it?"

"Passengers ain't allowed in the hold without one of the crew," snapped Mal.

"Oh, so sorry." The Doctor patted the TARDIS one last time and headed up the stairs once more. As he drew level with Mal he paused. "Look, I know we haven't quite gotten off on the right foot, but I just wanted–"

"I really ain't interested," Mal said flatly. "You just stay out from underfoot on the ride to Paquin, _dohn ma_?"

"Ah...understood." Now was _not_ the time to argue, judging from the look in the captain's eye. If ever a man was spoiling for a fight... "I'll just go to my quarters, shall I?" The Doctor gave Mal a half-smile and made good on his word, hoping it didn't look _too_ much like a retreat.

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**Chinese Translations for Chapter 8:**

_**Shiang jing ping**_** : Nuts, crazy**

_**Meimei: **_**Little sister**

_**Huen dahn**_**: Jerk, bastard**


	9. Chapter 9: Outcasts and Outsiders

**Author's Note: Thank you again for the lovely reviews! Now, I know y'all are anxious for a bit of action, and I promise it's coming soon! I'm glad you're still enjoying the story as much as I am. :D I've been lucky enough to see all of series 3 thus far, despite living on the wrong side of the pond, and I must say--the Doctor just grows cooler all the time. It's such a joy to see brilliant writing in a TV show when most of it is just more of the same.**

** This is one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy!**

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"A thousand years, a thousand more,  
A thousand times a million doors to eternit  
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times  
An endless turning stairway climbs  
To a tower of soulIf it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,  
The towers rise to numberless floors in space  
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,  
A million names but only one truth to face"  
–Sting, "A Thousand Years"

It was two weeks to Paquin, taking a route that would keep _Serenity_ more or less unobtrusive in official eyes and give the crew plenty of time to plan their heist. One stop was planned, on a small border moon to pick up remaining supplies and refuel. Mal ran an efficient ship, with the end result that there was a fair amount of downtime between normal duties.

The Doctor, trying his best to be unobtrusive (for the moment, at any rate), spent the first couple of days staying out of Mal's way. This involved a lot of time in his "quarters"–which, for a man used to the breathing room of the TARDIS, drove him fair starkers. It was when he started using his sonic screwdriver to do light shows on the walls midway through the third day that he decided he'd rather get decked in the face again than spend another minute in the tiny cabin.

Time was an elusive thing on a ship like _Serenity_. Planet-bound creatures measured their days with things like sunrise and sunset, and marked out their calendars with holidays and such. On board a ship, everything sort of blurred together into another sort of time, a much more fluid kind that could be bent to almost any shape. So, although the clocks said it was midday when the Doctor emerged from his cabin, the ship immediately around him was very quiet and bustle-free.

He padded through _Serenity's_ corridors, headed for the galley, wondering if he could convince someone to let him do something, _anything_ around the ship before he went mad with boredom. Or loneliness.

Laughter and voices from the galley cheered him a bit, and he quickened his pace. The galley was quite his favorite place aboard _Serenity_, with its cheery yellow walls and painted vines, the big wooden table and mismatched chairs radiating a sense of home and family. It was very _domestic_, but he liked it nonetheless.

Most of the crew were seated in those chairs now, with cards and bits of paper strewn on the table's surface. Kaylee was perched in Simon's lap, her arm slung around his neck. Zoe, sitting next to them, leaned back in her chair with both hands on the curve of her stomach, smiling slightly as she watched Mal and Jayne laugh over something. Inara was there, as well, chuckling quietly, though there was still a bit of coolness in her gaze when it met Mal's. The only person missing was River.

The Doctor became aware of the unusual sensation of being an intruder. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to; whether or not he actually _was_ intruding, he usually barged in without a care in the world and simply made himself at home. Or in charge, at the very least. But here, confronted with this unusual family, he felt...very alone. An outsider. These people had been through something tremendous together. He didn't know what it was, but he could see it like threads of shadow and light between them. Something that had forged bonds that were all but unbreakable.

He was familiar with bonds like that. And their breaking.

They hadn't seen him, there in the shadows of the doorway. He drew away, suddenly feeling every minute of his nine-hundred-odd years. Some days, he thought he'd give his soul for a little bit of normal...

"They're lucky," said a soft voice.

It was an effort not to jump right out of his skin, but the Doctor managed it with a modicum of grace, before looking down to see River, tucked up in a little shadowy alcove several yards from the galley door. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, skin pale and ghostly in the dimness. The dark folds of her loose dress pooled around her, indistinguishable from her long hair.

The Doctor moved closer to her, then crouched down so he was more on level with the strange girl. "Hello," he said quietly. "What are you doing out here?"

"People don't know normal when they see it," she said, completely ignoring his question. "They never see how precious it is."

Okay, that was a bit weird. More than a bit weird, actually, since he'd just been thinking about normality and its absence in his life. But considering the source...well, it wasn't unreasonable that she might be having the same sorts of feelings. It was a more comforting theory than the alternative, anyway, which was that she was slipping past his defenses and picking up his thoughts without half trying. But that...was neither here nor there. He could see some of the pain he was feeling reflected in this child's eyes. "No, they don't, do they?" he replied. "But then, people can be awfully thick."

Her gaze locked onto his. "Normal is relative," she said seriously. "Dinosaurs and monsters and Armageddon can be normal."

One side of his mouth quirked upwards. "Never going to be a dull conversation with you around, is there?"

A feeble answering smile lit her face, lending her delicate, worn features a fleeting luminosity. "You see."

"Oh, I see everything," he said, with a little irony. He did–or rather, he could. All those possibilities, everything that was or had been or could be...Didn't like to, though, unless it was important. It could get awfully distracting–and it made carrying on a proper conversation absolutely beastly.

"But only when you choose to," said River.

He frowned. Again with the disturbingly insightful remarks. "You could say that," he said warily. "Why aren't you in there with them, River?"

"It's hard to remember, sometimes," she said sadly. "To be a girl. They thought Miranda might make me better. She didn't. She just made it so I can pretend sometimes."

"Who's Miranda?"

"You can see her, if you look." River's eyes were intent.

The Doctor snorted softly. "You could give the Face of Boe a run for enigmatic, my girl," he said. "But I won't be distracted by beautifully weird prose. Why is it hard to remember to be a girl?"

There was, of course, an easy answer, an easy out. He could reach out, touch that pale little face, and see for himself what went on in that strange mind of hers. But he didn't make a habit of it, as a rule. Minds were precious things, formed by the soul and the heart and all the experience of a living being. Once you'd seen into another's soul, you never forgot it, not if you lived for a million million years. He'd seen souls enough, some so beautiful as to make him weep, others enough to give him nightmares–but each and every one of them magnificently intense. It was intoxicating, looking into the mind and memories of another. Addicting, even. He'd seen those of his race who had given into the temptation to walk in the minds of others until they became hopelessly lost–or worse, driven mad, utterly dangerous in their power over the souls of others. He swore he'd never do that, never give in to that temptation. And besides, where was the fun in jumping in and getting the answer the easy way? No challenge there...and challenge was what made life worth living.

"You're alone," she said. Ignoring his question, again.

"Yes," he said simply, not caring if she heard the pain in it. "And you're avoiding the question."

The glitter in her dark eyes told him she was perfectly aware of it. Not so mad, then. Or else she had some control of it, enough to keep her sense of humour. "I don't fit in," she said baldly. "I'm part of the family, but sometimes..." She sighed, and straightened out her legs. The Doctor shuffled aside to make room, then sat down beside her before his own legs fell asleep. "I remind them of what they lost, what they sacrificed to Miranda, to save me. I say things that make them worried or confused, and they don't like it. They don't want me to know how they feel when it happens, but I can see it."

The Doctor leaned back against a pipe, tilting his head so he could see down into her face. "I know a bit how that feels," he admitted. "Lots of people don't like what I have to say, most of the time. It's scary. It makes them see beyond their little walls of normality. No one likes being forced to see the monsters." He rolled his head back to look up at the ceiling overhead, full of pipes and wires and loving repair. "But the monsters don't go away just because no one likes them. So I tell them anyway, and damn the consequences."

"Someone has to fight the monsters."

He shot her a brilliant grin. "Exactly. And it can't always be me." He studied her for a long moment, letting senses no human possessed really _see_ River. He'd never seen anyone so tangled, so...shattered. Something terrible had happened to this child, something he quailed at the thought of truly perceiving. But between the cracks shone something so bright it hurt to look at. "Or you, I think," he added softly. "Sometimes, we need other people to fight the monsters with us."

"Or for us," River agreed. Her wide, solemn eyes searched his face in turn. "But sometimes there's no one else. Does it always hurt?"

Though he wasn't quite certain where this strange and twisty conversation was going (didn't _want_ to know, really, more fun that way), he answered honestly. "Yes. But if we turn away from the darkness it will consume us in the end. It has to be faced. Fought. Laughed at. Pierced with whatever light we can muster." He remembered that awful Darkness he'd faced, far beneath the surface of an impossible planet. That evil had been _so real_–and it had shaken the foundations of everything he ever thought he knew. But he'd faced it, and so had Rose, and all those other silly little humans on that station who'd come to that terrible place simply because it was _there_. Faced the Beast, and thrown it howling back into the night. "Someone has to stand up and say _no_."

Silence stretched–not taut, but heavy with _something_. After a bit, small cold fingers slid over his. With a smile, the Doctor turned his hand palm-upwards and grasped River's hand tightly. "Come on," he said, rising and pulling her up with him. "Let's not sit out here in the cold, eh? We might be outcasts, but by God, we shouldn't have to be outsiders as well."

That luminous smile returned, lending, just for a moment, a breathtaking beauty to her face. For the Doctor, smiles such as that were worth all the pain in the universe.


	10. Chapter 10: Coercion

**Author's Note: Halleluja, finals are all but over. My last paper is done and gets turned in tomorrow. Just one final left, and it'll be a fun one. I don't get to say that about finals very often. This one involves setting up a display in a museum, drawing from pieces in a historical clothing collection. Fans of Firefly and the period of time that inspired it will be happy to know that the pieces I get to play with are a pair of _gorgeous_ bustle dresses, one from about 1885, the other from 1889. Both are in very good condition, and make me wish I could wear genuine vintage clothing. Alas, being nearly 6 feet means that I'll just have to learn to sew if I want to wear period clothing. Darnit. Still, just getting to handle the pieces is _very_ exciting.**

**But enough of that, before you all get bored with my gushing and wander off. Y'all will be happy to know that, as of this chapter, I am now three chapters ahead of myself and still going strong. Let's all hope the plot fires keep burning!**

** And for those of you getting anxious for some action...never fear. It is coming.**

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Mal wasn't sure quite what to think when River came into the galley hand-in-hand with their passenger. Well, that wasn't quite true. His _first_ thought was mostly incoherent rage at the idea that, maybe, the reason 'the Doctor' hadn't shown much interest in Inara was because he preferred 'em younger–but then his brain caught up with his eyeballs. Even if the man had disreputable intentions, River was more than capable of plastering him all over the nearest wall. And it wasn't as if _he_ was River's brother. Or father. Or anything else but her captain. But she was crew, and it was his _job_ to be concerned...

Then the Doctor released River's hand and ruffled her hair, and the moment of worry passed. He turned a wide grin on the rest of them. "Hello!"

River sat down at Mal's elbow and gave him a Look. Always was a bit of a bother, worryin' over a girl when she could pick the thoughts right out of your brainpan...Mal wasn't about to apologize for it, and settled for raising his eyebrows at her instead. "Gettin' a bit friendly, there, aren't you, little one?" he said quietly.

River rolled her eyes. "Lost puppies have to stick together."

"Uh...okay." Mal sighed. He hated it when she got all elliptical on him. He never really knew what to say, and he _knew_ demanding clarification only resulted in further ellipses. "So...not _too _friendly, then?"

"He's too old for me," she said seriously. "_Really_ too old."

Well, that was a relief. Sort of. Made him feel old, too, though, since he was about the Doctor's age. He could still remember when thirty-something looked absolutely _ancient_ from the ripe old perspective of seventeen.

At the other end of the table, Kaylee was fussing over the Doctor. She'd jumped up from Simon's lap and was rushing about, telling the newcomer to sit down and offering to get him some tea. He responded to the prospect of tea with delight, and took a seat next to Jayne, who shot him a look fair drenched with contempt. Jayne wasn't one to hold with them as used their heads rather than their fists. He'd only recently developed a tolerance for Simon. Mal wondered if he ought to start taking bets among the rest of the crew as to when the mercenary was going to start tormenting the _new_ doctor.

Kaylee was chattering away fit to fry a man's ear. "–was gettin' real worried when you didn't come outta your cabin. I thought you might be sick–sometimes folks get a bit queasy, breakin' atmo after a long spell dirtside. But Simon," she shot her lover a frown, "said you was fine and there was no need to bother."

"Oh, there wasn't," replied the Doctor, smiling and accepting the mug of tea Kaylee handed him. "I'm fine, really. Just a bit tired, is all, and I didn't want to be tripping people up." He lifted an eyebrow at Mal. Then he took a swallow of the tea and his face froze. It was with some difficulty that he swallowed. "Nice tea," he said weakly.

Kaylee beamed at him, and resumed her place on Simon's lap. The young doctor, whose face had darkened the moment Kaylee started playing hostess, looked a mite happier. Beside Mal, River muttered something not entirely complimentary about her brother. Mal hid his smile in his own tea.

Jayne frowned at the Doctor. "What sorta doctor are you, anyway?" He turned his frown toward Mal. "And how come we need another one? Simon's bad enough we gotta have _another_ fancy suit around."

Jayne the public relations specialist, Mal thought sourly. He himself was hardly polite, most days, but Jayne took the concept of 'speaking one's mind' to whole new levels. "He's a payin' passenger, Jayne. Reason enough for me."

"How do we know he ain't a fed?" demanded the mercenary. "Or a bounty hunter?" He seemed not to cotton to the fact that, if the Doctor were either of those things, Jayne was sittin' right where he'd come into gun sights if things turned hostile. Or, if he _did_ cotton to it, was Jayne enough to think it didn't matter.

"Oooh, would that be a problem?" asked the Doctor, innocently. "I don't usually claim to be a fed, and I can honestly say I've _never_ tried bounty hunter–though I've had a few after me. And did you really ask me what sort of doctor I am? 'Cause that's a bit personal, don't you think?"

Jayne's frown turned puzzled. "How'd that be personal?"

The Doctor's eyes widened. Mal pinched the bridge of his nose. He recognized the look on the Doctor's face–it was the delighted expression of a cat that's just had a particularly stupid mouse wander right in between its paws. Only blessing here Mal could see was the fact that Jayne was probably too dumb to notice when the other man started tyin' him up in verbal knots. And if he _did_ notice, well...Doctor had to learn sometime not to provoke the muscle. And Simon was on hand to fix any broken noses. Or jaws.

It was gonna be a long ride to Three Hills.

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Three Hills was a border moon with a reputation for shady dealings. Despite this, Mal never had much liked the place. Too hot, too dusty, and too damn full of folk looking to double cross him in some way. Fortunately, he wasn't planning on dealing with any of them this trip. He was planning on dealing with Zeke Harkness instead.

Zeke Harkness was Three Hills' unofficial headman, mostly on account of the fact that he owned the fueling station, and therefore controlled much of the colony's traffic. Zeke was mad, bad, and dangerous to know–but for all that Mal liked him well enough. A ferret the man might be, but he never had tried to shoot Mal in the back, figuratively or otherwise. Not yet, at any rate, and that was good enough for Mal to harbor a smidge of neighborly kindness toward Zeke.

River landed _Serenity_ light as a feather–despite Mal standing over her shoulder and fretting–a mile or so from Zeke's station. (Mal liked Zeke; he didn't trust him.) The tricky business of landing finished, Mal left the bridge to pass around marching orders–which always took longer than he wanted, because unless it was an emergency, folk inevitably argued. Kaylee wanted to go to the station, Simon wanted to go with Kaylee, River just wanted to wander...at least Zoe, by now, had accepted that she wasn't going to be Mal's backup for some time. Mal spent a spell shouting down arguments and hammering the idea into everyone's head that he was the gorram captain for (probably) the millionth time. Mostly it was Kaylee doing the arguing; she just wanted a chance to go through Zeke's scrap pile–and Mal didn't feel like spending an hour or three looking for her amidst all the junk. He finally ordered her flatly to stay put, and she sulked off to the engine room, trailing a hopeful Simon. River accepted the order to stay on _Serenity_ without flickering an eyelash, and wandered off herself. Probably, Mal thought, to harass Simon and Kaylee, which would result in him getting an earful of complaints (mostly from Kaylee) when he got back. Some days, Mal seriously wondered how folks coped with having more than one child. He felt like the parent of a bunch of rowdy teenagers more often than he felt like the captain of a group of supposed adults...

Zoe intercepted his exasperated gaze with a slight smile. "I'll make sure they don't kill each other, sir."

"I'd appreciate that. Was it ever like this during the war? 'Cause I don't remember there being so much arguin'."

She shrugged. "Not so much. Though I imagine all the bullets flyin' had a lot to do with it."

"Huh. Wonder if I rigged up gun turrets in the hold to go off when folks other than me started shoutin' would do any good..."

"Probably not." Though she smiled at the idea.

They both knew perfectly well that Mal allowed the arguing because he found it a comfort. When the crew followed his orders without question, it was usually because they were in a really bad spot. The rest of the time, it just felt like family–and Mal didn't mind admitting to himself that–only child and orphan that he was–he rather liked the feeling. "Keep my ship safe," he said to Zoe.

"I will, sir," she replied, and turned to walk carefully back up the ramp. She hadn't _quite_ reached the waddling stage yet, but it was getting damn close. Mal tried not to think too hard about that, since the inevitable thought following was what the hell they were gonna do when she actually _had_ the kid.

He turned to tell Jayne it was time to saddle up, and nearly fell right over Inara. She had the set look on her face that told him he'd better agree to whatever it was she wanted right fast or she was gonna make his life _hell_ in a thousand quiet and subtle ways that never undermined his authority but nevertheless managed to set him twitching. And, recognizing as he did the wisdom of agreeing, he promptly said, "Whatever it is, 'Nara, the answer is _no_."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "That's really too bad, Mal. Because I'm coming with you."

"What? No, you are _not_ gonna..." He trailed off with a sigh. "I don't suppose tellin' you it might get dangerous would help?" he asked, without much hope.

"Not really."

"Didn't think so. Not like I expect much trouble from Zeke, anyway. We're walking, though. No sense in wasting fuel on the mule, just for a mile and a bit. You up for hiking around in..." He noticed for the first time what she was wearing. Not a silk dress and sandals, but sensible hiking boots and a pair of heavy (if well-cut and obviously expensive) trousers. The blouse was one of her usual, though she'd thrown on a leather jacket over it. "Huh. Where'd you get boots to fit?"

"They're mine," said Inara coolly. "Companions don't spend _all_ their time in a bedroom. I've had a number of clients in the past who liked going on hikes."

Mal resisted the urge to comment on that. She'd only just started speaking to him after their _last_ argument, and he was coming to realize that he really preferred Inara when she _wasn't_ furious with him. "I was sorta hopin' I could count on you to keep the children from killing each other..."

"Zoe told me she could use the exercise. And she gave me a list of things to pick up that, according to her, she didn't trust you to get right."

Mal drew himself up indignantly. "Didn't trust–! I've had that woman's back for near on a decade, and she don't trust me to pick up–" he hesitated. "What sorts of things?"

Inara gave him an arch little smile, and Mal knew he'd lost the argument. "Are you sure you really want to know?"

"Uh...no." It was a conspiracy, he just knew it. The women of the ship were ganging up on him, and finding it all sorts of amusing. "All right. Just...keep up." As a parting shot went, it was pathetic. "Jayne, let's get moving. Daylight's burnin'." He checked his pistol a final time, then grabbed his coat from where he'd dropped it and shrugged it on.

It was about ten minutes into the walk before he noticed they'd picked up a fourth person. He turned back to say something to Inara–something conversational–and promptly forgot what it was as he spotted the tall, lanky figure in the long brown coat trailing a bit behind the group. The Doctor wiggled his fingers at him. "Hi!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Mal demanded.

The Doctor looked around, his expression faintly puzzled. "Walking. Isn't that obvious? I was getting a little bit of cabin fever, and I heard there might be a shop..." His forehead wrinkled with concern. "It isn't a problem, is it? I mean, it's not like there was anything I could do on the ship..."

Mal gritted his teeth. From the startled looks on the other two's faces, they hadn't noticed him either. "No, it ain't a problem. Just see to it you don't wander off and get left behind."

The Doctor grinned. _Again._ Mal wondered if the man's face _ever_ got tired. "Oh, I won't," he said cheerfully. "I _never_ wander off. That's other people."

Zeke's station was a rusty ramshackle of corrugated metal siding and scrapped ship parts. At any given time there were a dozen or so ground or near-atmo vehicles in various stages of disrepair cluttering up the scenery, with members of Zeke's station staff working (or pretending to work) on them.

Zeke himself emerged from the office, a man nearly as tall and lanky as the Doctor, and dressed in what Zeke himself felt was the _height_ of fashion. As this included a velvet coat and ruffles, Mal had his reservations, but kept them behind his teeth. Man could dress however he wanted, so long as he got the job done. Mal raised a hand in greeting, then froze. Zeke was smiling broadly.

Zeke _never_ smiled.

"Malcolm, old buddy," Zeke cried as he drew near the little group from _Serenity_. "How are you?"

Mal shot a glance around the yard, belatedly noticing a number of things that were off. There was none of the usual loud laughter and horsing around. Instead, the mechanics were standing still, huddled in small groups of two or three, watching the newcomers with wary, furtive eyes.

"They're scared," said Inara, keeping her voice low. "Something has badly frightened them."

"I don't like the look of this, Mal," Jayne muttered.

"Hush," he hissed back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Doctor peering around. The man's stance was his usual hands-in-pockets, all casual and nonchalant–but Mal could see a sudden, subtle tension in every line of that thin body, like a hound just gone on alert.

"Zeke," Mal said coolly. He caught Jayne's eye. The big merc shifted his weight slightly, and tightened his grip on his big rifle. Inara, too, changed her stance. Mal recalled she'd had more than a bit of martial arts training. Hell, she'd taken on the Operative, back at the training school. Hadn't gotten far, but she'd bought Mal time enough to recover. Mal let his hand slide toward his pistol, not bothering to hide it from Zeke. "What's goin' on?"

The foppish man's smile wavered. "What d'you mean? Nothin's goin' on. Just bein' friendly."

"You ain't ever been friendly in your life," said Mal. "Not 'less you want somethin' you figure the other party don't want to give. So I'll ask again–what's goin' on?"

"I'm hurt, Malcolm," Zeke protested.

"I mislike repeatin' myself," Mal said, letting a hostile edge creep into his voice. He slipped his pistol out of it's holster, but was careful to keep it lowered by his side.

Didn't do any good. Weapons bristled all around them as Zeke's men drew iron. Mal kicked Jayne in the leg to prevent the idiot shooting someone on pure reflex, ignoring Jayne's glare. Inara let out a soft "Wonderful," and the Doctor settled for staring in magnificent affront at the gun currently leveled at his nose. He did, however, pull his hands out of their pockets and keep them carefully out from his side. Mal breathed silent thanks that the strange man hadn't done anything stupid. Yet.

Mal looked back to Zeke and raised his eyebrows. "I really wasn't lookin' for a fight, Zeke. Thought we were friends."

"I ain't lookin' for a fight, either, Malcolm," said Zeke seriously. "But you aren't gonna like what I've got to say, and I can't let you leave til I've said it. Put the gun away. I'd hate to have to take your pretty friend here hostage." He nodded at Inara. Mal risked a glance at her face, and suddenly felt sorry for any _sah gwa_ who tried taking _her_ hostage. Wasn't like she had to worry about anyone complaining to the Guild about assault at this point...

Mal glared at Zeke, but the other man didn't look away. A tense silence stretched. Finally he said, "Jayne," and holstered his own weapon. Jayne muttered something extremely rude in Chinese, but lowered his gun. Mal folded his arms across his chest, still glaring. "Okay, I'm listenin'."

Zeke rubbed his jaw tiredly, and Mal noticed for the first time how exhausted the normally immaculate station owner looked. Dark smudges marred the skin under his eyes, and he didn't look to have shaved recently. "I can't fuel you up, Malcolm." Catching the expression on Mal's face he hastily added, "'Least, not until you do somethin' for me first. I wouldn't even ask, or–or whatever–'less it was real important. Think of it as a job. There's even a free fuel up and some coin in it, you do this."

"Pointin' guns and issuin' threats ain't a way to win me over," Mal growled.

Zeke glanced around at his men. "Sorry," he said, and nodded to them. Guns were lowered, but not put away. He looked back to Mal, his face drawn. "It's just that we got ourselves a real problem, Malcolm. The sorta problem we ain't equipped to handle.

"Folk have been disappearing, past couple of weeks. Vanishin' right out of the towns hereabouts. We thought at first some pirates or somethin' had landed and were plannin' to ask for ransom–but then we found some of them as had disappeared."

Mal had a sudden, very bad feeling.

"Wasn't pirates," Zeke continued, his voice hoarse with remembered horror. "The bodies were...it looked like Reaver work, Malcolm."

A chill trickled down Mal's spine, and he felt more than heard Jayne's unhappy exclamation, just as he sensed Inara's soft intake of breath. But he shook his head. "Can't be Reavers. Reavers wouldn't take just a few, they'd destroy a whole town. Maybe the whole damn moon."

Zeke's eyes were troubled. "I know, but we think maybe it's just one or two, holed up in the woods between Guangxi and Helltown. Used to be a third town out there, but it got hit by a small Reaver party six months back. We bombed the town from the air, but it's possible a couple got out."

"No." Mal frowned. "Reavers don't work that way, not even if it was just one or two. They wouldn't hide out in the woods and take a few folk when they get hungry–they'd attack everything they could til someone stopped 'em." Remembering the chilling words River had once said, he added softly, "They never lie down..."

"You'd know about that, too, wouldn't you, Malcolm?" asked Zeke.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" demanded Mal angrily.

"That's why we want you and your crew."

"What for? Zeke, you don't answer me soon, I'm gonna break your nose."

Zeke sighed and fiddled with the lace at his throat. "We want you and some of your crew to go out there and find the _cheong bao ho tze_ monsters doin' this–and we want you to put an end to them. Whether they're Reavers or somethin' else, you're the folk to handle 'em."

"No way!" Jayne burst out. "No ruttin' way! Goin' after Reavers is suicide!"

Mal's voice was cold. "And you want us to do this–why? 'Cause we're expendable? 'Cause I got a valuable ship sittin' there for the taking, we don't come back?"

Zeke looked unhappy. "It's not like that, Malcolm," he protested. "We can't handle this. Most of the folk around here are dirt farmers, you know that. They can drop a few bombs onto open ground from an air-skiff, but tracking killers in the woods? They can't stand up to somethin' like this." He squared his jaw stubbornly. "And I can't ask 'em to. But you and yours, Malcolm–well, we've all heard the stories."

_Ai, ta ma duh._ Mal scowled. "What stories would those be?"

"That Malcolm Reynolds and his crew flew into Reaver territory and came out again. That they fought an army of Reavers face to face and _lived_, while the Alliance fleet was torn to pieces in the sky above. Ain't ever heard of other folk who did such a thing."

_God, I hate being seen as a big damn hero,_ thought Mal plaintively. It was such a gorram pain in the _pi goh_. "Not all of us lived," he said harshly, remembering how Wash's blood had made the floor of the bridge slippery, how hard it had been, afterwards, for him and Jayne to pry out the massive harpoon skewering the pilot's corpse to his chair while Zoe wept her heart out behind him. All those years of war, and he'd never heard her cry like that. He never wanted to again.

"Maybe not," said Zeke, "but you still won. One or two Reavers ain't beyond you. So here's the deal, Malcolm: you take care of our problem, whether it's Reavers or some crazy killer actin' like a Reaver, and we'll refuel your ship for nothin'. Even pay you what coin we can."

Mal felt his face heat as fury flooded him. He stepped close to Zeke, moving fast enough to catch the mechanics off guard, and fisted his hands in the lapels of the man's velvet coat. "I got a pregnant woman on board my boat," he snarled. "I got _kids_ on board. I don't appreciate you threatening them."

"Mal, I'm not–"

"Shut up!" Mal roared. "It's _your_ turn to listen to _me_, Ezekiel Harkness! I ain't gonna put them through that. Not again. They already fought the monsters, and we all came outta that with pieces of our souls missin'. I ain't askin' them to do it a second time. I'm not gonna take your deal, Zeke. You're gonna fuel up my ship, and I'm gonna pay you. Business as usual. You want those things in the woods stopped, you call in the gorram feds and make them do their jobs!"

"I'm sorry, Malcolm," said Zeke. "But I can't. The Alliance ain't comin'; we already asked. And I got whole towns of women and children in need of protectin'. My people can't do it. I got no choice. Your ship has been landlocked. It won't be released unless you help us."

His heart pounded out time to the rage coursing through him. Mal raised his fist, fully intending to beat Zeke's face in–but a hand closed around his wrist with unexpected strength, preventing him doing so. Mal twisted his head around to meet the Doctor's grave dark eyes. He saw Zeke's staff raising their guns again, and he stopped straining against the grip on his arm.

"If we go," said the Doctor to Zeke, "and we fail–what then? Do you plan to leave the rest of Captain Reynolds' crew to rot here? Or are you going to force them to face the monsters and die as well?" His accented voice was quiet, but there was an edge sharp as swords in it.

Zeke's brows shot together. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"That _really_ doesn't matter," said the Doctor coldly. "What _is_ important, Mr. Harkness, is what you're going to do." His eyes narrowed, and his voice became harsh. "And I really, _really _suggest you make the right decision."

Zeke gaped at him.

Mal shook the man a bit, drawing the station owner's attention back to him. "I'll tell you what you're gonna do," he snapped, taking advantage of the opening the Doctor had left him. "We do this, then you refuel my ship whether or not I come back. You let my first mate take _Serenity_ and leave peaceful-like. You don't agree, and not only will I _not_ take care of your little problem in the woods, but I will drag you out there and feed you to them myself. _Dohn ma?_"

Zeke gulped and glanced at his men, but they stood in frozen fascination. Finally he nodded, his eyes darting back and forth nervously between the open fury on Mal's face and the chilling cold on the Doctor's. "All right. I'll send a fuel transport out to _Serenity_ now." He pulled free of Mal's grip, managing to put some distance between himself and the Doctor at the same time, even though the Doctor had offered him no threat of physical violence. Tugging at his coat and straightening his cuffs, he tried to regain some dignity. "But I'll be posting guards at the ship, to make sure you don't try and sneak off first chance."

The thought had occurred to Mal–but deep down he knew he wouldn't do it even if handed an open shot. Reavers or not, the folk of Three Hills didn't deserve to be left at the mercy of nightmares.

He rubbed both hands over his face and turned to Inara. Her flawless face wore its calm mask, but he could see the worry in her eyes. "I'll need you to go back to _Serenity_ with the transport," he said, reaching out to grasp her shoulders. "Fill in the others on what's happening, and don't let Zoe shoot anyone."

Neither of them was fooled. They both knew he was sending her back because he wanted her safe, because he couldn't bear it if something happened to her out there. He could still see very faint scars on her cheek from the battle five months ago, where a Reaver's claws had torn her open. He hadn't been there to see it, and he thanked the God he no longer followed that was the case. Been hard enough, seeing her blood afterwards, knowing he was the cause of it. A showdown with Zeke's men was one thing. This was something else entirely.

Inara held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "I will." She hesitated, a sudden uncertainty taking over her usual poise. She reached up to touch his face, a feather light brush with her fingertips. "Be careful, Mal," she said softly. "Please."

He swallowed. "I will." Before his brain could shut down he stepped away. "Doctor–"

"I'm coming with you," came the stubborn response.

Mal eyed him. Man looked like a skinny twerp, but he hadn't flagged once on the hike from _Serenity_ to the station, and the ache in Mal's wrist said the man was a good deal stronger than he looked. "Fine," he said. "You need the loan of a gun?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I'm fine."

He didn't _look_ armed, but with that big brown coat the man could probably hide a small arsenal away. And no one was dumb enough to travel unarmed, 'less they had bodyguards. "All right, then. Jayne, let's go." He glanced back to where Inara was being escorted toward a bulky fuel transport. She looked over her shoulder, met his eyes. Feeling a mite better, Mal focused his attention back on Jayne.

The mercenary looked unhappy. "Don't fancy goin' after Reavers," he grumbled.

"I don't recall it bein' a request, Jayne. Stop bein' such a little girl." He turned back to Zeke, who looked so satisfied Mal wanted to hit him. "We'll be wanting a few more things in the way of arms," he snapped.

"Grenades," said Jayne. "I want grenades."

Mal smiled humorlessly at Zeke. "Give the man some grenades. And we'll need a means of transport to the woods. Something quiet; horses are fine, if you've got 'em."

The Doctor's face lit up. "Horses?"

* * *

**Chinese Translations for Chapter 10**

**_Sah gwa:_ Fool (literally, "Stupid melonhead")**

**_Ta ma duh:_ Damn (possibly something much ruder. Never have been clear on that. I personally prefer the translation "damn.")**

** _Pi goh:_ Ass**


	11. Chapter 11: Helltown

"Stand up when no one else is willing  
Act not in hatred or in spite  
Be to this world as a perfect knightE  
ven if it means your life"  
–The Cruxshadows, "Sophia

A few minutes later, the Doctor was not so enthusiastic. "I always forget how _big_ they are," he muttered, eyeing his assigned horse dubiously.

"You can ride, can't you?" asked Mal, swinging up into the saddle of his own barrel-chested roan.

"Well, yeah," admitted the Doctor. "Well enough to stay in the saddle under most circumstances. It's just, I don't exactly make a _habit_ of horseback riding..."

"Ain't hard," said Jayne, who invariably tried to steer a horse as though it were a hovercraft and sat in the saddle like a bag of potatoes.

"We'll be leavin' them outside the woods," Mal said, turning his horse as it tried to sidle. He hadn't been on a horse in a good long while–he preferred spaceships these days–but some things you just didn't forget. Old Bill's lessons on how to handle a horse was one of them. "I don't want to deal with several tons of panicked horse if we _do_ run into Reavers."

"I dunno," said Jayne thoughtfully. "Maybe the Reavers'd go after the horses first."

Mal shot him a glare, then shifted his weight to start his horse moving, urging it into a slow canter. The Doctor was close behind. Jayne, after a brief argument with his horse (who looked to be more than its share of stubborn) followed.

The first part of the ride passed in relative silence, broken only by occasional bouts of cursing from Jayne whenever his horse decided to try its own navigation. The Doctor offered advice from time to time, which Jayne soundly ignored. Mal ignored both of them, too busy wondering just what the hell he was thinking, agreeing to go hunt maybe-Reavers of unspecified numbers with just him, Jayne, and a skinny weirdo in a pinstriped suit. He wished hard he could have Zoe with him, someone he could trust to have his back no matter what happened. But that was an impossibility, since he wouldn't have her out here in her condition and he wouldn't wish her un-pregnant for the worlds, not when it made her happy like he'd never seen her.

The sky overhead was a hot, cloudless blue, the air around them tongue-parching dry. Little puffs of dust rose from their horses' hooves as they crossed the open grassland between Zeke's station and Helltown. Sweat soon ran freely down the three men's faces, trickling past collars and soaking shirts. Jayne, in his usual t-shirt, was the only one of them remotely comfortable. Mal and the Doctor, in their long coats, were quickly in a state of acute misery. Mal managed to struggle out of his coat without being forced to stop and dismount. The Doctor, whose coat was far longer and far more fitted than Mal's, had no such option. He finally pulled off his necktie and tied it round his head, then unearthed a pair of solar lenses from somewhere inside his coat. The effect was utterly absurd, but this did not seem to bother the Doctor.

They reached Helltown, which lay midway between the station and their destination, a couple of hours past noon. By then, both horses and men were in fair desperate need of water and a rest, so Mal called a halt.

Despite its name, Helltown looked to be a nice little community, especially compared to most of its border moon counterparts. It was a little shabby, with several of the buildings in need of some painting, but it had a general law-abidin' look. A boring, peaceful sort of town.

"It's all very 'Tombstone,' isn't it?" observed the Doctor as they dismounted and led their horses to a water trough. "I mean, I keep expecting Doc Holliday or Wyatt Earp to come round the corner any minute." He turned to find Mal and Jayne staring blankly at him.

"Who're they?" Jayne demanded. "Ain't never heard of 'em."

The Doctor cleared his throat, his ears reddening a little. "Oh...er, nevermind." He looked around. "Seems a bit quiet, though, doesn't it?"

And it was. Mal had just been noticing the extreme lack of folk out and about. Helltown had all the earmarks of a place that ought to be hustlin' and bustlin' this time of day, but wasn't. The few pedestrians they did see were in an almighty hurry, pausing just long enough to stare fearfully at Jayne and Mal (mostly at Jayne) and in mild confusion at the Doctor, still sporting tie-headband and solars. He smiled and waved cheerfully at them, which only sent them scurrying away all the faster.

"Not very friendly," he commented.

"Might be somethin' to do with your headwear," said Mal dryly.

"Mmm." The Doctor turned and raised his eyebrows at Jayne's assault rifle. "Or possibly _your _big scary guns. Or maybe it's something to do with the monsters in the woods." He looked thoughtful. "Do you know, nearly all sentient beings have a nearly primal terror of deep forests? Every culture, there's legends about the Things in the Woods–and yet everyone loves trees. Isn't that strange?"

"We'll need to find someone, ask directions," Mal said, ignoring the Doctor's babble. He had a feeling if he showed even a smidge of encouragement, the man would blither on all gorram day. "Don't seem likely anyone'll be willing to actually serve as a _guide._ These folks have the fear of hell in 'em. Or somethin'."

"Not all of us," said an unsteady voice.

Mal turned to see a red-haired kid, not more than fifteen or sixteen years old, all gangly and pimple-faced. He clutched a shotgun like it was a life preserver, and though his eyes were wide and frightened his soft jaw was set in a stubborn line. "Who're you?"

The kid gulped. "'m Ricky," he said. His voice cracked a bit, and he flushed painfully. "I–I'm here to offer y'all some help."

"Hello, Ricky!" said the Doctor, his smile returning tenfold. He reached out to grab the boy's hand and pump it up and down. "I'm the Doctor! I knew a Ricky once–well, a Mickey, actually–long story, nevermind. He was an idiot, but I quite liked him. He saved the world a few times."

Ricky looked faintly stunned, and Mal took pity on him. "And what kind of help would that be, Ricky?"

Ricky pried his hand loose from the Doctor's and edged away from him. "'m the best tracker in town," he said, and for a moment pride overruled the nervous quaver in his voice. It died just as quickly, though. "And–and I'm the one as found the–the bodies. The first ones." He swallowed hard, his face going faintly green at an awful memory. "I want to see these things–whatever they are–s-stopped. I–I ain't afraid to go out there."

"Sure you are," said Mal, but he kept his voice kind. "All of us are. But we're used to fightin'–" he glanced at the Doctor and amended, "–or 'least, Jayne and I are. Seen an awful lot of bad stuff, includin' Reavers." Ricky flinched at the name. Mal continued. "I appreciate the help, and you're real brave even offerin'–but I don't think your mama would thank me if I took you along and got you killed."

Ricky's face hardened, and his eyes welled up. "No, sir, she wouldn't. But my mama was one of them as was taken. And–and I'm the one as found her."

_Ah, hell_. A cold weight settled into the pit of Mal's stomach. Beside him, Jayne shook his head, looking sorrowful as a puppy.

The Doctor, all traces of manic cheer gone from his face now, reached out to touch the boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said gently.

Ricky sniffed, and nodded his thanks. He still looked stubborn. "I want to help," he repeated. "No one else is gonna. And–and I ain't gonna be able to live with myself if I don't do nothin', and more folk die."

Mal gritted his teeth. He had no argument he could muster against a statement like that. "You got a mount, kid?"

Ricky nodded.

Mal had been hoping the answer was no. "Fine," he said reluctantly. "But you do what I say, you follow _my_ orders, _dohn ma_?" He waited for the boy to agree, then added, "We leave town in twenty minutes. Best say what goodbyes need sayin'."

Jayne scowled as Ricky scurried away. "Mal, I feel all sorts of sorry that kid lost his mama, but he's gonna do nothin' but panic and slow us down."

"You don't know that," said the Doctor. "He might surprise you."

Jayne transferred his glare to the brown-haired man. "I'm thinkin' the same thing about you, _Doctor_," he snapped. "You ain't a soldier."

"No," agreed the Doctor. "I'm not. But I will promise you I won't freak out or anything."

Jayne snorted, oozing contempt.

"Don't got time to argue," Mal interrupted. "Let's get watered up and get out. Day ain't gettin' any younger, and I ain't real anxious to go into those woods at night." He turned and headed for a storefront with the ever-present Blue Sun logo in the window, not waiting to see if Jayne and the Doctor followed. They must have done, because no sooner did he duck through into the cool dimness of the store than he heard a soft exclamation of delight from the Doctor.

"Look at that! They've got plumbing supplies. D'you know how many things you can build with a few bits of pipe and some wiring? It's really amaz–ow!"

Mal shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the Doctor rubbing his ribs. Jayne, standing next to him, had a smug look on his face. Mal sighed. Just like a parent with teenagers...

The store owner didn't look too pleased to see them, but he didn't go so far as to order them out. Even in the midst of trouble, folk could be counted on to be lookin' to make coin. Mal crossed to the cooler and began scooping out bottles of Blue Sun water.

The shopkeep was reluctant to meet his eyes as he tallied up the price, but finally he muttered, "Y'all the ones Zeke said he'd hire? To go out to the woods?"

Mal gave some thought to making a few remarks about Zeke's methods of hiring, but took a look at the weary fear on the older man's face and decided, for once, to be diplomatic. "Somethin' like that," he replied.

The other man stared hard at the counter before him, then raised his eyes to Mal's face. "Then you just take this stuff," he said finally. "And whatever else y'need. I won't charge you a thing."

Mal stared, a mite stunned. In his experience, folk didn't take too kindly to heroics these days. Oh, there'd been a time or two, during the war, when those with sympathy for the Independent cause had offered shelter, or other small kindnesses, but not so much any more. "Thank you," he said finally. It felt a bit strange, saying those words. He hadn't said them much in the past ten years.

The store owner nodded, his eyes sliding away from Mal's once more. Mal gathered up the water and signaled to Jayne that it was time to go. The Doctor was standing quiet, watching the goings-on with a curiously expressionless face. He held the door for the other two, and they stepped back out into the hot, dry daylight.

Mal stopped dead, just outside the door. "Ah, hell," he breathed. There was a group of townsfolk gathered in a knot in the street a few yards from the storefront. They didn't look happy.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I was moving in roommates and helping roommates move out, and moving all my stuff to another bedroom, and trying to help my little brother (who is graduating in a month) job-hunt here in town. Craaaazy weekend. :) On a happier note, it appears that I not only survived all my classes, I managed to keep my grades intact and my reputation as a damn good writer of research papers. :D Only one class I don't know the grade yet, but I'm betting I did fine. (Shakespeare and I have always gotten along well.)**

**I'm giving thought to illustrating this fic...which means I'll have to buy a scanner, since mine doesn't work, but still...:) **


	12. Chapter 12: The Monsters in the Woods

"There is no fact that cannot be challenged  
No course of fate we cannot repair  
The means to an end is in the beginning  
Strength to endure comes out of despair  
Where there is love, there is life  
And where there is life, there is hope  
And in hope we find the sight to see  
The essence of divinity."  
–The Cruxshadows, "Defender"

Inara gently blew out the flame and set the smoldering incense stick into its holder. Growing up, she'd always enjoyed the rituals of her faith. It was a beautiful concept, the idea of prayers going up to heaven on a cloud of fragrant smoke. It was not until she left the sheltered life of Sihnon and met a highly unpredictable man by the name of Malcolm Reynolds that her beliefs took on a more immediate, practical meaning. For the first time in her life, she'd discovered she truly had something to pray for.

Mostly, that the idiot wouldn't get himself killed and leave her to pick up the pieces.

Had Mal truly been the selfish, cold-hearted criminal he liked to think he was, she wouldn't have half so many worries. It wasn't his dubious choice of work that was the problem–it was that streak of morality three miles wide that he liked to pretend (most of the time) didn't exist.

She thought she'd understood him, what drove him. But it was so much more than a desire to spit in the Alliance's eye, to scream defiance at his oppressors. The horror of war and its bitter aftermath had broken Mal Reynolds–but it hadn't killed his desire to protect the weak and the voiceless, his determination to cling to his convictions whatever the cost.

"_I start fightin' a war, I guarantee you'll see somethin' new."_

And oh, she had. She'd seen something terrifying in a man she'd thought of as an honorable but slightly bumbling fool. She'd seen then the reason why so many had followed him to death in battle, and why some, like Zoe, followed him still. Why he still stood and fought, even when he'd lost everything to the war, and stood to lose it again to the Operative and his masters. And it had cost them. Wash, Shepherd Book, nearly all _Serenity's_ friends and allies on the border planets. All dead, slaughtered by Reavers or the hand of the Alliance assassin and his men. And still Mal fought. Had been willing to sacrifice them all–even her–for the sake of a shattered child and a planet of voiceless dead. For the human beings the Reavers once had been.

Because it was the right thing to do. Because no one else was willing. Because he could.

She'd walked away from _Serenity_ once before. She'd felt other things were more important than her feelings for Malcolm Reynolds. But she'd come back. And stayed. Some days she still wasn't sure why she was here, on a transport run by petty criminals, when she ought to be somewhere repairing her relations with the Guild and getting on with her own life.

And then he pulled something like today, risking his own life for the sake of others, and she remembered why she stayed. Why she _couldn't_ leave. Oh, he'd protested, and thrown a fit–but she knew him well enough by now to know that if it were something he was truly dead-set against doing he'd find a way out. He'd agreed to go because there was something out there he could fight that the people of Three Hills could not. The fact that he was willing to do such a thing, despite everything that had happened and might yet, was the reason she knew she could not leave him or the odd, broken family he'd built ever again.

And the best she could do to help him was to pray for his safe return.

* * *

This was not shaping up to be the best day ever. Mal eyed the crowd uneasily. No one seemed to be armed, but he wasn't gonna make assumptions at this point. Then he spotted Ricky, at the front of the crowd. The boy stood next to a much older man, who had one hand planted firmly on the kid's shoulder and was scowling fit to turn folk to stone. Mal suddenly had a good idea what all this was about. 

"Can I help you folks?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.

The older man–grey haired, lined face that looked like leather–stepped forward, hauling Ricky with him. "Y'all are headin' into the woods?" His voice was higher than Mal'd expected.

"That's the plan. Didn't expect to meet a lot of protest about it." Mal squinted at the mob. "There a problem?"

"Name's Norfolk," said the man. "I'm council head here." He looked down at Ricky and shook the boy's shoulder. Ricky winced. "This one here says he's goin' with you. That true?"

"Boy did volunteer," admitted Mal. "I didn't say no."

Norfolk scowled. "You should have," he snapped. "Things out there in the trees–you can't be takin' a dumb kid out there. We lost enough folk already."

Mal sighed. "Look, I understand how you're feelin'. Not too keen on takin' the boy out there my own self, but it ain't my decision." He nodded at Ricky. "It's his."

"No, it ain't," insisted Norfolk. "He don't know any better. Now, I'm head of this town, and I say you ain't takin' him with you."

Mal stepped forward, but made sure to keep his hands noticeably clear of his weapon. He wanted to intimidate Norfolk, but not so much that he found himself lynched. "I wasn't much older than Ricky there when I signed up for a war," he said coldly. "And I wasn't an orphan. But those around me were wise enough to respect the decision of a kid who wanted to do the right thing. Ricky wants to defend this town. I don't see anyone else in this town showin' that kinda backbone." He caught Ricky's eye.

Ricky's jaw set. "They need a guide, sir," he told Norfolk. "And he's right–ain't no one else around here willin' to go. I am."

Norfolk's eyes were pleading. "But, Ricky, you _can't_ go out there! It's Reavers!"

"I know that, sir. And they killed my ma."

The older man's shoulders slumped in defeat. Mal knew how he felt; there was nothing the man could say against the words 'they killed my ma.' "We'll take good care of him," he told Norfolk. "I promise."

Norfolk looked up to meet Mal's eyes, and Mal knew the other man didn't believe him. Didn't believe they'd come back at all. But he nodded anyway. "Fine. Get going." He turned to go, and as the rest of the crowd began to disperse he hesitated. "Thank you for going out there," he added quietly. "God go with you."

Mal bit back the urge to remark on the unlikelihood of _that_ and settled for a curt nod instead. He looked to Ricky. "Let's go, then."

* * *

It wasn't a very _big_ wood. At least, not to a man who'd stood on planets where whole _continents_ lay swallowed by forest. The Doctor admitted to himself that he might be a teeny bit prejudiced in that regard. But still–only ten or fifteen square miles? Barely a copse. 

It _was_, however, plenty scary. All tangled underbrush and shadowed secrets. Small it might be, but there was still the essence of forest primeval here, enough to set the tiny little animals living in any sentient creature's soul quivering in fear and fascination.

They'd left the horses outside the wood. It was too overgrown to ride them in, and no sooner had they reached the forest's edge than the beasts had begun to snort and sidle and foam with frightened sweat. Mal had refused to tether the animals tightly, saying only that if they didn't come out of the woods he wasn't going to let them stand there and starve. Or get eaten by Reavers.

The Doctor had been hoping, once they got under the trees, that it would get cooler. His coat was simply _sweltering_, but he wasn't about to leave it somewhere it might get lost. There were useful things in the pockets. It was just that most places he went, it seemed, were bloody freezing. Been awhile since he actually landed somewhere _hot_. The air within the wood, however, wasn't a bit cooler; it was stifling and thick. Their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the eerie silence, crunching on summer-dried deadfall with a sound unpleasantly reminiscent of treading on fine, crackling bones.

There was no talk, but the Doctor could see the strain growing on his companions' faces. He felt it himself. Something was _wrong_ here. There was no birdsong, no sound of small fuzzy wildlife. Even the trees were silent–and trees were almost _never_ silent, moving and creaking even in the stillest air. Death lay heavy on this wood, and though one part of the Doctor was desperately curious to find what could cause such an eerie aura, another, more sensible part of him dreaded the coming horror. And he had no doubt it _would_ come; it always did, as inexorable as Time itself.

Mal allowed Ricky to take the lead when they entered the trees. The going was slow as the boy paused at frequent intervals to scour the ground for traces of...well, whatever it was he was looking for. In truth, it was not a difficult search. All around them were signs of _something_ that held a deep and abiding hatred for the living. Old blood marked torn trees and underbrush. The shredded corpses of small animals were scattered all over the place, crawling with maggots and reeking with decay in the terrible heat. The back of the Doctor's throat was dry, and it wasn't from thirst. He'd seen similar evidence far, far too often over the years, in some form or another. A desperate hatred of _other_, a sentiment that had given birth to every atrocity in creation...

Something that was not so much a sound as a different sort of not-sound caused the four men to freeze. Jayne, the Doctor noted, was sweating with more than the heat, his eyes wide and white-rimmed–but his hands were steady on his massive gun. Mal's pistol was in his hand, his face hard and cold. Ricky was shaking so badly he could barely hang onto his shotgun.

The Doctor felt fear, but he knew it wasn't what the others were feeling. His was fueled by his own memories of evil, not personal experience with "Reavers." He was desperately curious to know what, precisely, a Reaver _was_, and why it was so feared–and he knew he wasn't in the right company to ask direct. Not unless he wanted to give the whole game away right now–and a little voice in his head told him that wouldn't be smart, not yet. (The voice sounded an awful lot like a certain south London shopgirl with more perception than any young human had a right to.) From what he'd heard thus far, Reavers sounded a lot like the archetypal monster in the dark. But he couldn't doubt the claims that Mal and Jayne both had faced them, or that the boy had seen what they'd done to his mum. The Doctor had met far too many monsters to disbelieve them.

They still hadn't budged. Ears were straining, trying to learn if that not-sound was real, or simply the product of a frightened mind. The Doctor appreciated the need for caution, but his patience–already worn thin by the days on board _Serenity_ with nothing to do–snapped. Shoving sweaty hair off his forehead (he'd given up the tie headband; now it dangled loosely around his neck), he started forward. Dead leaves and brittle branches snapped loudly beneath the rubber soles of his trainers. "Come on now," he said brightly. He kept his voice soft, but it still sounded like a shout in the horrible stillness. "Let's not dawdle. It's going to be dark in a few hours, and I don't really fancy camping."

The other three jumped a mile, and glares were leveled at him with such intensity that he really ought to have been reduced to a pile of cinders. The Doctor ignored them, and continued walking. "Come on," he said again, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch.

An instant later he cursed himself for a reckless fool as _something_ exploded out of the tangled shadow and barreled into his chest with a force not unlike a speeding freight train. The air exploded from the Doctor's lungs as his attacker bore him to the ground. Some instinct brought his hands up, just in time to keep a pair of long-nailed, claw-fingered hands and snapping teeth from clawing out his throat or biting off important things like noses.

He couldn't get much beyond a confused impression of teeth and matted hair. The stench coming off the thing was stunning. Filth and decay, old blood and a thousand other things he didn't have time to name, assaulting his sense of smell like a physical blow. He had a fair idea that this _thing_ currently doing its damndest to chew his face off was almost certainly a Reaver. Still didn't know what it _was_, exactly–but he did know he didn't like it.

The sharp ends of branches dug into his flesh even through the layers of coat and suit as the creature's weight pressed him farther into the forest floor. Hot, foul breath washed over his face and hands as he fought to keep blackened teeth and nails from ripping out his life. The thing was monstrously, inhumanly strong, and although the Doctor's own strength surpassed a human's by quite a lot, it did not make up for mass and weight. This creature was big, and heavy, and its full weight bore down on slender frame of the man beneath. Any minute now, it would succeed in breaking his grip on its forearms. The Doctor was dimly aware of his companions shouting, of the distant rattle of gunfire...

And then, suddenly, things got a whole lot worse.

_Something_ slipped past his mental shields and tore into his mind with all the grace and delicacy of an iron axe. It burned with insanity and rage enough to shatter a thousand worlds. The Doctor couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Couldn't feel the ground beneath his body or the rough, crusted skin beneath his hands. The pain was everything, an all-consuming madness such as he had _never_ experienced in the mind of another living creature. It was going to end him, send him weeping into the dark where he could never return...

Then, all at once, it stopped. The weight pinning him to the ground was dead weight now; the stink of fresh blood filling his nose. He could feel the hot liquid seeping into his shirt, hear the last sounds of the creature as life left it. With a grunt, the Doctor shoved the corpse off him and rolled away onto his hands and knees. He was shaking all over, and the back of his throat was raw. He must have been screaming.

He looked up into the white faces of his companions. The captain, he noted absently, looked absolutely furious and gripped his pistol as though he were giving serious thought to shooting the Doctor. At the moment, the Doctor rather felt it would be an improvement. His skull felt like someone had been at it with an ice cream scoop...

He pushed himself upright, settling onto his knees. He was pretty sure that any attempt to stand right now would only result in falling over. He tried to speak, but only a faint squeak came out. He coughed, tried to swallow but found he couldn't, and made another attempt. His voice was hoarse. "So...that would be a Reaver, then? Not very friendly, are they?"

Dark blue eyes blazed. "What kind of gorram idiot are you?" Mal shouted. "We _knew_ it was Reavers in these woods, and you–! You go chargin' ahead like you got some kinda death wish!"

The Doctor considered his options for response, and settled on "I'm sorry." It sounded lame, even to his ears. He meant it, though. He was painfully aware that he'd allowed his impatience to goad him into stupidity–and he really, really hated looking an idiot in front of less-evolved species.

Mal pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "I hate civilians," he muttered.

Jayne edged forward to nudge the corpse with the toe of his boot, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Least its dead," he remarked. A few feet away, Ricky was busy introducing the contents of his stomach to the underbrush. Janye looked up at Mal, lifting his eyebrows. "Think it was the only one?"

The shaking began to ease off, though his head still pounded madly. His concentration was clearing, and the Doctor's natural curiosity was staggering back to its feet. (He hoped he could follow its example soon. Kneeling on sticks and leaves and little rocks wasn't exactly comfortable, and while his physical body was young, it wasn't a teenager's.) He scooted forward for a closer look at the dead Reaver, reaching out to turn it over. Neither Jayne nor Mal moved to help.

"Good God," the Doctor breathed. "It's..._human_."

"Is not," Jayne mumbled. He eyed the dead thing as though he expected it to jump up any minute.

The Doctor ignored him, taking in the ravaged, mutilated features and the twisted body. "Who did this to him?"

"Reavers do it to themselves," said Mal. "Part of bein' a Reaver. I'm guessin' you're one of those Core-worlders who think Reavers ain't nothin' but a campfire tale." The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

The Doctor ignored that, too, reaching out to run his fingertips over the scars and terrible piercings. "What could drive a human being to do this to themselves?" he asked softly. "What could plant such–such _rage_ in a mind not designed to hold so much? Hang on." He frowned. "That's not the right question. A good question, but not the right one. The _right_ one is: how did it get past _my_ shields? Next to no one in the universe can do that, not anymore. Especially not a maddened beast like this. And not without me _letting_ them..." His frown deepened. "Maybe if I'd been trying to read it–a door once opened and all that–but I _wasn't_. Too busy worrying about the teeth, but not so worried I'd let slip my own _shields_." He became aware of a profound, chilly silence from the others.

"What d'you mean, 'shields'?" demanded Mal.

"Doesn't matter." The Doctor waved away the question, his other hand still tracing the terrible face. Something buzzed under his fingers and he jerked his hand away. "Hello, what's this?" He reached out and plucked a small, flat piece of metal from where it lay, wedged into a horrible slash that cut through the skin to expose the muscle beneath, and was held apart by twisted bits of wire. "Now, this _is_ odd." It was vaguely oval shaped, smooth and cool and silvery beneath his fingers. And it _hummed_.

Mal dropped into a crouch across from the Doctor. His face was still angry, but curiosity was starting to crowd out the fury. A good sign, the Doctor felt. Curiosity was always better than anger, especially when the other man was holding a loaded weapon. "Reavers are known for sticking weird things on themselves," Mal said. "Among other things." Behind him, Ricky staggered back, face green and rather embarrassed, though not even Jayne gave him a reproachful look.

"I gathered that, but _this_–I think this little beauty was put there by someone else."

A puzzled frown wiped away the last traces of anger. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't you say, back at the station, that it _couldn't_ be Reavers out here, because they weren't behaving properly?"

"Yeah. Said they wouldn't hide out in the woods and take a few at a time. Apparently, I was wrong."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, I don't think you were." He held up the little metal disk. "Do you know what a radio tag is?"

"Uh...a tag with a radio in it?"

"Don't they use stuff like that to track things?" Jayne piped up. "Like animals?" As Mal and the Doctor turned startled looks on him he added, "What?"

"Point for the big dumb monkey," murmured the Doctor, careful to keep his voice low enough Jayne couldn't hear it. Mal did, though, and quickly arranged his features into a careful not-smile. Louder, the Doctor said, "That's exactly it, Jayne. Well done." He spun the silvery thing between his fingers, flipping it across his knuckles like a coin. "This is a bit like a radio tag–but it's a lot more than that. This thing is radiating an awful lot of power. More than it should–and why is that?"

Mal reached out, plucked the disk off the Doctor's hand. "Don't seem like anything but ordinary metal to me," he said.

The Doctor retrieved the object. "That's because the energy pouring off it is–pause for drumroll–_psychic_ energy. And that's something you lot shouldn't have. Not on this level anyway." He paused, frowning a little. "At least, I don't _think_ you should. What year is it?"

Mal blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. "What?"

"The year. What is it?"

Jayne snorted. "You don't _know_?"

The Doctor shot him a withering stare. "I wouldn't ask otherwise, now would I? Now, answer the question. What's the year?"

"June 12th," said Ricky, hesitantly. "2518."

"Twenty-five–" The Doctor wrinkled his brow, mind racing through calculations, putting together what he'd learned already about the time and place the TARDIS had landed him."Oh! Early twenty-sixth century, no lightspeed travel but highly advanced terraforming." He grinned. "You're the Lost Colonists! Oh, that explains a _lot_."

All three men were staring at him now as though he were utterly mad. Before they could get past it and start thinking–which would inevitably lead to awkward questions (his big gob got him into more _trouble_...) the Doctor hastily went on. "Point is, this is _way_ advanced for these parts." He tossed the metal disk in the air. It flashed, even in the dim light of the woods, and human eyes (so easily distracted) followed it, breaking the tense moment. Catching the object again, he said, "Someone has been mucking about with things they oughtn't." He held the disk up, squinting at it with one eye. "And if I were to make a guess–and I'm very, very good at guessing–I'd say this little item charged up with psychic energy isn't just for _tracking_, it's for _controlling_."


	13. Chapter 13: A Little Bit of Trust

**I finally caught up to myself...well, not entirely, but this is the last, complete, not-gonna-edit-any-more chapter I've got at the moment. :p**

**As a side note, Series Three of Doctor Who is shaping up to be pretty darn intense! Ten is really getting run through the wringer this year, and somehow I don't think it's going to get any easier for him!**

**Amusing Doctor quote of the day: (From our dear Fourth Doctor) "Well, to be fair I did have a couple of gadgets he probably didn't, like a teaspoon and an open mind."**

**Amusing Mal quote of the day: "Well, Jayne, my days of not takin' you seriously are certainly comin' to a middle."**

* * *

"_Controlling_?" Mal stared at the Doctor. He wanted to call the man crazy–but there was nothing but sincerity in those big brown eyes. "You mean, controlling _Reavers_?"

The Doctor's mouth curved into a wry half-smile. "Well, seeing as we found it on a Reaver, then I'd say that, yes."

"No way," said Jayne insistently. "Ain't nobody can control a Reaver. Ain't possible."

"Can't tell if they _succeeded_," admitted the Doctor. "But you _did_ say they weren't behaving right. Maybe that was due to this thing's influence." He held the disk up to his eye again. "I wonder..." He reached inside his suit jacket with his free hand and tugged out a thin silvery cylinder-thing with a little blue bulb on top. He flipped it over in his hand, pointing it down at the piece of metal. A high pitched hum made Mal's eardrums buzz, and blue light spilled from the object's end. After a moment, the Doctor lifted the strange little tool up, still activated, and waved it around. He frowned. "Ooh, this probably isn't good," he said.

"What?"

The Doctor cocked a worried eye at him. "There's another power signature like this one somewhere nearby."

Meaning there was another gorram Reaver nearby. But why hadn't it attacked them yet? The Doctor, damn him, was right. There was something really _off_ about these Reavers' behavior–and no reason Mal could see for it. Reavers didn't change their behavior all on their own. At the moment, the hows and whys of the Doctor's strange tool and his even stranger remarks a few minutes earlier faded in the light of imminent danger. One more Reaver they could probably handle, but if there were any more out there, they would be in serious _f'n zse_. "I don't suppose that metal thingy of yours can tell if it's more than one?"

"There's only one signal, so I can definitely say there's only one Reaver wearing a tag. There might be others who aren't tagged, though." The Doctor switched off his device and frowned at Mal. "And it isn't a 'thingy,' it's a sonic screwdriver. Most useful tool in the universe." He tucked it back into his jacket.

Moving past the obvious question–how could a _screwdriver_ pick up signals, sonic or not–Mal said, "Jayne, better get the grenades ready."

The Doctor started to climb to his feet, but wobbled so badly that Mal jumped up to grab his arm. "Thanks," said the other man. "Feel like I've been hit by a train." He brushed at the leaves and twigs clinging to his clothing, then looked down to where the Reaver's blood stained his shirt and jacket. His face wrinkled with distaste. "And I look as though I've been through a slaughterhouse."

"Can you tell what direction the other Reaver is?" Mal demanded. "Be useful for somethin' _other_ than Reaver bait?"

The Doctor glowered, but did not argue the point. "That way," he said, pointing west. "But I think if we just wait here for a–"

Jayne let out a howl of pain just as a loud _crack _split the air. The big merc clutched his side with one hand and staggered backwards. Blood welled between his fingers. A second shot rang out, then a third, kicking up bits of shattered leaves and dirt from the forest floor. There came the sound of heavy bodies moving at speed through the underbrush, and then two more Reavers were upon them.

The first headed right for Jayne, who was struggling to bring his gun up. His fingers were slick with blood, and he fumbled with the weapon. The second ignored Mal and the Doctor in favor of Ricky, who stood frozen with terror.

Mal dove forward, dropping his shoulder and ramming into the Reaver attacking Ricky. He hoped to knock it down, give him a chance to put a bullet in its brainpan–but as usual, luck was ignoring him entirely. The Reaver staggered, but caught itself on a sapling and immediately launched itself at Mal. He had just enough time to shout at Ricky, "Help Jayne!" and then the monster was on him.

He got a foot up in time, planting it in the center of the thing's chest and pushing hard. Mal considered himself good at hand-to-hand, but not where Reavers were concerned. He was more interested in keeping the thing as far away from him as he could. Unfortunately, Reavers weren't _quite_ as mindless as folks liked to think. They wouldn't be so good at killing if they were. Maybe they couldn't think like humans anymore, but there was still a kind of cunning present. The Reaver grabbed Mal's boot and twisted, forcing him to drop and roll with the motion or have his knee dislocated. It left him with his back to the Reaver, on the ground. Not a good spot to be in–especially seeing as the thing still had him by the leg. Worse, he'd dropped his pistol. Mal tugged his foot free of his boot and rolled away, scrambling to get back on his feet before the creature could close again. The Reaver was fast, though, and Mal found himself pinned against a tree, still not on his feet. He groped for the knife he kept in his other boot, but he knew he wouldn't get it out in time.

Then the Reaver's head snapped back, and a long, brown-sleeved arm wound around its throat. The Doctor planted both feet, wrestling the Reaver back. It clawed at the arm around its throat, and at the hand fisted in its matted hair. "Do something," the Doctor snarled through clenched teeth. "I can't hold it much longer. And I _really_ don't want my coat ruined."

Mal didn't need to be told twice. He yanked the knife free of its sheath and lunged upwards, driving the blade up under the thing's ribs and into its heart. The Reaver's body convulsed, hot blood splashing over Mal's hands as he pulled the knife free before the muscles could tighten around it. The Doctor released the corpse and stepped quickly away. The body toppled heavily to the ground, narrowly missing Mal as he scrambled to his feet.

The other Reaver was dead, and Ricky stood over it, clutching his shotgun and looking rather shocked. Jayne looked surprised too; his own weapon was still lowered. Blood trickled from spots on his face and upper arm where the shotgun blast had peppered him. Ricky turned wide eyes on them. "I–I–"

Mal stepped forward to put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Good shot, son," he said gently.

Ricky shuddered under his touch, twitchy as a spooked horse. His eyes shone with unshed tears. "It killed my ma," he whispered. "An' worse than that. They–they–"

"I know," said Mal. "I've seen what they do."

The boy's face crumpled for a moment, and Mal wondered anxiously if he was gonna have to hug the kid. Wasn't that he was _averse_ to offering comfort, but he generally preferred it to be one of his own crew. (Though he would, he was fair certain, never _ever_ hug Jayne. Ever.) But Ricky drew himself up, and lifted his chin. Tears tracked through the grime on his cheeks, but there was a resolute fire in his eyes. "But they're gone," he said. "And they won't hurt anyone else."

"The monsters are gone," agreed the Doctor. His voice was compassionate, but Mal thought it sounded a bit sorrowful, too. "For now, anyway." His eyes fell to the three bodies, bleeding on the ground. He dropped to one knee by the one Mal had stabbed and reached out to tilt its head aside.

Jayne was shuffling his feet and looking all manner of embarrassed. Well, he hadn't gotten off a single shot during the second attack, and was probably torn between being grateful-like to the kid that saved his hide and all manner of red-eared about the fact that a _kid_ had saved his hide. Mal caught his eye and nodded at the bloodstain on the big man's t-shirt. "Is it bad?"

Jayne glanced down and tugged at the ruined shirt. Blood flowed sluggishly. "Not life threatenin' or nothin'," he replied. "Hurts like hell." His fingers explored the smaller wounds on his face. He scowled. "Doc's gonna have to look at it." He glanced at the Doctor. "I mean, _our_ Doc."

"I don't do surgery," said the Doctor absently, still examining the Reaver corpse. "This one seems to have torn his tag off. Must not have liked having someone bossy inside his head." He reached out to touch a ragged spot on the dead Reaver's neck. "That's interesting."

"Fascinatin'," said Mal, insincerely. While he was on some levels more than a mite curious about these tags, now that the job was done he was mostly only interested in getting back on board _Serenity_ and get cleaned. His hands were sticky, and starting to itch. He pulled a water bottle from inside his coat, trying not to get blood all over, and washed the worst of the stuff from his hands. Then he took the communicator out of his outer pocket and switched it on. He'd deliberately left it off after Zeke's station, figuring he'd get an earful from Zoe and the rest of the crew otherwise. Gonna get an earful now, but everyone'd be so happy they were alive, it'd probably be a short one. "Zoe? You copy?"

"_Lio coh jweh ji neong hur ho deh yung duh buhn jah j'wohn!_"

Mal winced.

More Chinese profanity followed. The Doctor paused in his examination of the other Reaver corpse to listen with great interest, a grin tugging at his mouth. Ricky's eyes got wide at the creativity and inventiveness of the insults. Mal waited patiently for his second to wind down. She did, eventually, and at the end of it added a growled, "Sir."

"You feel better?" Mal asked her.

"I'll feel better when I have you where I can hit you, sir," came the reply. "Kaylee and Inara have offered to hold you for me."

Mal sighed. It was _so _nice to be loved. "Job's done."

"Injuries?"

"Jayne got shot up a bit. Mostly bruises, otherwise. Wave Zeke, tell him we're done. We'll bring him the corpses by way of proof, so he can remove the lock on _Serenity_. Think y'all can come to us? Don't much feel like ridin' all the way back to the station."

"I'll have River fire her up. Doc'll be standin' by when we get there."

"Shiny. While you're at it, tell Zeke we'll be dropping in for payment."

"Was it Reavers, sir?"

"Yeah. Three. We're gonna sweep the woods, make sure there aren't any others. I'm pretty certain there ain't, but best be sure. And we'll have River take a look when y'all get here."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Not as such. See you in a few."

"Zoe out."

Mal tucked the communicator away. "Jayne, you up for walkin'? I want you and Ricky to go round up the horses."

Jayne was winding a length of cloth–torn from his shirt, by the looks of it–around his side. He looked up. "Don't horses generally wander home of their own accord?"

"Don't want to chance it. I don't wanna get hit with a bill for lost horse."

Jayne sighed, but nodded. "Fine." He shot an appraising look at Ricky. "C'mon, kid."

There was some respect there, Mal noticed, watching the two head out. He just hoped Jayne didn't plan to show it by giving the poor boy lifestyle advice.

The Doctor rose from his place by the corpse. His specs were perched on the end of his nose, and he was tucking away the sonic screwdriver. "I'm pretty sure there aren't any more," he said. "I located the missing tag, about a hundred yards to the west of here; it's fainter than the others, which is why I missed it before. Sorry about that, by the way." He lifted his right hand. A pair of tags dangled from his fingers. "The power seems to fade when not connected to a living creature." His smile did not reach his eyes. "Whoever made these is _very_ clever. But I can assure you, this time, that there are no other power sources like this in the area."

Mal didn't reply immediately. He wasn't sure where to start, for one. Finally he crossed his arms and cleared his throat. "You saved my life," he said. "S'pose I owe you some thanks for that."

"Well, seeing as you saved _my_ life just before that, it seemed the thing to do." The Doctor lifted an eyebrow. "Are you going to follow this up by telling me you still don't trust me?"

"Thought about it. Thing is, though, I ain't sure. You didn't have to come along today. Coulda gone back to the ship and no one woulda thought it strange."

"Maybe. But this–" he waved vaguely, encompassing the carnage around them, and the events it described. "This is sort of what I do." His dark eyes were sorrowful. "Death and I are old, old friends."

"'What you do'–why is that? Some of that stuff you said earlier...now, I ain't sayin' I'm gonna throw you off my ship, Doc, but you seem to have just raised more questions than you answered."

"And I haven't earned your trust yet," said the Doctor. "Not quite." He raised a hand, as though to head off protest. "I quite understand that, all things considered." He half-smiled, ruefully. "I tend to trust a little _too_ easily sometimes, I think. Gets me into trouble." He looked away, pulling the spectacles off and twirling an earpiece between his fingers. For a moment, he looked very old, despite the young face. Tired, Mal guessed, and coming down off the adrenaline. He figured he looked about as haggard.

"It is true I don't give trust easy," admitted Mal. "But you've earned some room today. I'll accept what you're willin' to tell me–for now."

The Doctor's gaze slid back to his. "Then I suppose you can call me a...problem solver. Everywhere I go, I find things that have gone terribly wrong. When I was younger–" his smile was wry, "–I thought it was dumb luck. Or bad piloting. Now I wonder if it isn't all part of some...higher plan. Fate, or karma, or kismet, what have you. It's like I'm drawn to things that shouldn't be, like this–" He held up the tags again. "Things only I would notice, or know how to fix."

"That's what you meant before, when you told me why I should let you on my ship. That there was a wrong somewhere you could do somethin' about."

"Yes." He chuckled quietly. "And, of course, there is _so_ much more to that explanation...but–and please don't take this wrong, Captain Reynolds–I really don't think you're ready to handle it yet."

"Just answer me this," said Mal. "Are you an Alliance agent?"

The Doctor's gaze was very steady. "I'm no one's agent," he said, a little defiantly. Then a spark of humor entered his eyes. "Of course, I could be lying to you. You don't care for the Alliance. Admitting I was working for them would probably not be good for my future breathing prospects."

"That's a truth," admitted Mal. "But here's another: much as I hate the government, as much wrong as I know it's done, I ain't so blind as to think that _all_ folk as work for it are evil assassins bent on making the lives of me and mine hell. So if you _are_ Alliance...well, so long as you ain't plannin' on hurtin' my crew or my ship I can _almost_ promise you I won't shoot you. Much."

The Doctor laughed. "'Damn the Man'," he said cheerfully, "has been one of my life's defining philosophies, Mal Reynolds. I am not an Alliance agent, I promise you. Time, I think, will prove the truth of my words."

Mal sighed. "Well, seein' as you just risked your life against the worse thing in this 'verse to help a bunch of folk you don't even know...I guess I can live with that."

* * *

**Chinese Translations for Chapter 13**

_**Lio coh jweh ji neong hur ho deh yung duh buhn jah j'wohn**_**: Stupid son of a drooling whore and monkey**


	14. Chapter 14: Pockets

**AN: Apologies for the delay. Ironically, I was getting more writing done when I was frantically in the middle of school, finals, AND work. Now I've just got work...funny how that turns out. Anyhow, I'm back, and hopefully there won't be such a large delay in the immediate future. I make no promises, however, as I've been very involved getting my roomies hooked on Doctor Who, Firefly...and trying to get through all 9 seasons of the X Files myself. :D Thanks for the reading, folks! For those of you who don't know already, a bit of shameless self promotion: I wrote a one-shot Eight Doctor/Time War bit. Look for it in my profile. It's a bit rough, and I may polish it up later, but overall I'm rather pleased with it. Found all sorts of Eighth Doctor books, and find I may have to write a fic with him in in the future...because Paul McGann is so very, very pretty. ;)**

**Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day (Actually, this is an amusing companion quote. Tegan, to the Fifth Doctor, in "The Visitation"): Call yourself a Time Lord! A broken clock keeps better time than you do; at least it's accurate twice a day, which is more than you ever are!**

**Amusing Jayne Quote of the Day: "What'd you all order a dead guy for?"**

* * *

"I have wandered, I have rambled  
I have crossed this crowded sphere,  
And I've seen a mass of problems  
That I long to disappear.  
Now, all I have's this anguished heart,  
For you have vanished too.  
Oh, my girl, my girl, my precious girl,  
Just what is this man to do?"  
–Murray Gold, "Love Don't Roam"

When a job was done, and the world was saved (at least until the next time) the Doctor really preferred to leave as quickly and quietly as he could. Saved a lot of fuss and extended goodbyes. And parties. He didn't really like parties. Loved people, and interacting with them, but not at parties. They always seemed to go wrong, somehow. And someone was always trying to get him to dance when he didn't want to.

But there was no slipping off from Three Hills. For one, Mal wasn't about to leave before he got paid for risking lives and limbs. And then people from the nearby towns began pouring into the station, bringing food and coming to have a look at the heroes. Ricky, as a local, achieved special status almost immediately–which Mal seemed content to let him have so long as the food kept coming. The Doctor noticed that the captain was awfully good at making sure that a steady stream of the stuff got tucked away on the ship without being obvious about it, especially things made up with vegetables and fruit. A clever way of making sure his crew stayed well-fed on something other than protein extracts. The Doctor silently applauded Mal's imagination.

He wasn't very interested in mingling, though. He didn't think much of Zeke (who, despite bearing the name Harkness, struck the Doctor as a spineless fish) and as fascinating as the townsfolk probably were (it was still all very Tombstone, from what he could see), the Doctor found that what he really wanted was the TARDIS. And a shower. So he waited until everyone was thoroughly distracted by the impromptu celebration and slipped away into _Serenity's_ cargo hold, where his own ship sat quietly. It was easy enough to wait until no one was looking to unlock the door and slip inside.

The lights came up softly as he shut the door behind him, and a gentle hum filled his ears. The presence of the TARDIS, never completely gone from his mind, loomed large and comforting. Much as he ached for his lost planet, as much as he missed it and everything else lost to the War, _this_ was truly home, and had been since the day he stole her and ran away to see the universe. As long as he had the TARDIS, he would be all right.

Crossing to the center console, he reached out to run his fingers along the curve of it, the Gallifreyan coral inlay he'd installed before the end of the War warm beneath his fingers. "Hello, old girl," he said softly. "Everything all right?" Past companions had accused him of daftness, speaking to the TARDIS as though it were another person. Very few of them ever understood that, to him, she _was_–and so he tried not to carry on extended conversations with his ship unless he was completely alone with her.

The ship's presence flared briefly, a burst of color in his head that told him everything was just fine. Then, oddly, an image of little River Tam's face appeared, very briefly, followed by something that felt...curious. The TARDIS was intrigued by the strange, broken girl that wandered the ship outside. The Doctor wondered a little at it. The TARDIS usually didn't acknowledge other beings unless they actually came _inside_.

The moment passed, though, as a burst of concern at the blood on his clothing chased away thoughts of River. The Doctor patted the console. "Not mine," he assured the ship. "Though I'd appreciate it if you'd open up the laundry for me. And the baths. And while I'm there, I want you to hook up to whatever passes for the local databases. I need to do some research, before I really put my foot into it. "

A hum of agreement came, and the Doctor was aware of a slight _shift_ from beyond the door at the other end of the control room, opposite the entrance. He sent up a mental thanks, and left the console to pass through the door.

The interior of the TARDIS was vast, and forever shifting and changing as his needs and the ship's changed. Some days he was content to ramble through the labyrinthine halls, looking for the room he wanted and pausing in delight as he rediscovered old haunts, but when he was in a bit of a hurry the ship could summon nearly any room he liked straight to the door off the main console room. Only a few rooms lay locked beyond even his access, some at his specific request, others for safety reasons. One of these was the Cloister Room, where once the bells of Gallifrey tolled to call him home. The room itself still existed, but with its link to his home planet destroyed in both space _and_ time it was dangerously unstable–and, in truth, it was too painful to visit. He hadn't liked the Cloister much before the War, as it was one of the means by which his fellow Time Lords had sought to bring him under their control, and now that it was mixed up with everything else he felt for his lost planet...well, best it stay locked away.

The laundry was nothing exotic. In fact, it bore a distinct resemblance to your average London laundromat–cramped and a bit dingy–except for the fact that the machines it contained cleaned nearly any form of stain from any form of clothing, and _didn't_ cost exorbitant amounts of money. Or turn your socks pink if you didn't separate the wash. The Doctor's own laundry needs were usually pretty sparse, as he preferred to stick with variations on a single outfit. His life was complicated enough; he didn't care to worry about what to wear on any given day.

There was still a basket of Rose's laundry perched on top of the washer, full of hoodies and t-shirts in various shades of purples, pinks, and reds. The manner of their separation meant she'd only had with her what she wore when they went to Canary Wharf. The rest of her possessions were still on the TARDIS, in her room and scattered throughout various other places on the ship. She never had gotten the hang of picking up after herself. The Doctor frequently came across things unexpectedly on his trips through the commonly used rooms of his ship. When he did, it felt as though knives were being driven into his hearts, stealing away his breath. But he couldn't quite bring himself to remove all of it, or to ask the TARDIS to hide away her room. Finding her things hurt, but sometimes he could pretend, even if it was only for a few heartsbeats, that she'd only just popped out to visit her mum, or to go shopping with Mickey. That she might be coming back. Maybe it was foolish, and unhealthy...but it was some kind of comfort. That, and the knowledge that she was still alive and almost certainly living magnificently. Best he could do would be to do the same, and hope the pain would become tolerable someday.

And standing here mooning over a basket of wash was simply ridiculous. Rose would laugh at him. Dragging his eyes away from it, the Doctor began emptying the pockets of suit and coat onto the top of the dryer. They were his pockets, and he was responsible for everything in them, but even he was still occasionally astonished at what ended up in there...

Two yo-yos, one an ordinary toy, one a useful and highly sophisticated tool whose function he couldn't quite recall at the moment. A conker, and a small toy car. (He remembered picking up the conker in a village green, circa late-nineteenth-century-England, but where in the world had he picked up a toy car...?) The sonic screwdriver, of course, and his spectacles, and the thin leather wallet that held the psychic paper. The strange radio tag from the dead Reaver, its signal fading even now. (He suddenly remembered his sunglasses were on top of his head, and hastily snatched them off before he forgot about them again. It was a miracle they hadn't been lost in the fight.) A remote control, useful on robot scavengers and on small explosives disguised as Christmas ornaments. Several of said ornaments; left over from the encounter with the Empress of the Racnoss, that he still kept around in case they came in useful someday. A bag of sweets–saltwater taffy, if he remembered right, bought who-knew-when on his last trip to Cardiff. Quite good taffy actually, but he was finding his taste for Earth-made sweets wasn't as insistent as it used to be. He couldn't even look a jelly baby in the face anymore. He wasn't sure if that was a sign he was getting old, or simply growing up. He really hoped it was neither.

Various other tools, some broken, some not, none as useful as his screwdriver. A banana, starting to go brown. A pair of 3-D glasses that were _not_ really 3-D glasses, and had a load of painful memories attached, since he'd used them last at the battle of Canary Wharf. If he put them on, he could still see the Void-stuff clinging to him–the same stuff that had cost him Rose. A small book of photos Rose had given him that last Christmas at the Powell Estate, full of shots of him, Rose, and Jack Harkness, with a several of Mickey and Jackie thrown in and various other people, human and otherwise, they'd encountered. The first half of the album had his old face. He smiled a little at it, with the daft ears and the icy blue eyes. He hadn't worn that body very long, it felt like–but it had been a good one. The album's contents would eventually join his other memorabilia in the library, but for now he still preferred having it on hand.

A handful of mixed currency from various planets, and the inevitable piece of candy covered in pocket fluff rounded out the collection. The Doctor blinked at the pile in faint bemusement. It really was amazing...and the best part was, everyone always thought he had nothing in his pockets. Bigger on the inside, best tailoring idea in the world. One of these days, he planned to test and see just _how much_ he really could fit in there...

Amused by the possibilities, the Doctor quickly stripped out of his clothes and stuffed them into the washer. Then he grabbed the battered blue robe he'd swiped off Jackie's boyfriend last Christmas (there was _still_ a satsuma in the pocket), started the wash, and left for the shower.

As a rule, Mal wasn't particularly opposed to parties, as such–free food and booze was something he'd developed a fondness for early on in life–but there was a job to be done and time wasn't turnin' any slower. Of course, he met with the usual amount of grumbling when he started rounding crew up–mostly from Kaylee, who loved parties of any kind, and from Jayne, who was using his "heroic wounds" in an attempt to get some trim–but in the end he managed to get everyone back on board and extract a fair amount of coin from Zeke before abandoning Ricky to bear the brunt of Three Hills' gratitude. (Ricky did not appear all that upset about it.)

It was several hours after they broke atmo, and most everyone had gone to bed. Jayne was keeping watch up on the bridge. His wounds were paining him some, but he'd refused painkillers, much to Simon's surprise. Mal figured it was Jayne's way of settling out his embarrassment over having his life saved by some greenhorn kid. He never would understand the workings of Jayne Cobb's mind. In truth, he _really_ didn't want to.

A flash of something bright caught his eye as he stepped into the galley, and he looked up to see Inara standing in the far doorway. Mal hadn't had much chance to talk to her after they got back on _Serenity_, what with getting Jayne patched up and dealing with Zeke and the locals, and Inara had been pretty scarce since they broke atmo. He wasn't sure if she was upset with him, or just tired.

Now, with her standing there in the doorway–looking not at all tired and beautiful enough to make stars cry–Mal found himself at a loss for something to say. Which was not an unusual state of being for him, where Inara was concerned. Most times, it seemed, he opened his mouth around her, and it ended up being nothin' but a _bie woo lohng_ that only made the already vast gulf between them bigger. He never could quite tell what she was thinking, and it always spun him about.

The silence, though, had become damned awkward, so Mal risked filling it with words. "Well. That was a bit of excitement."

Her face was solemn, as it seemed to be whenever she had something to say to him and wasn't sure how to say it. (He might have been pleased, had it been anyone other than Inara, to know that _he_, Malcolm Reynolds, could fuss a Companion so much she was at a loss for words. Since it _was_ her, it mostly just made him nervous.) "The Reavers, or the party?" she asked.

"Oh, the party." He shot her a smirk. "Reavers seem to be shapin' up to be our stock in trade." He gave some thought to telling her about what they'd found, that someone out there was maybe trying to _control_ Reavers–but then decided not to. The babbling of the Doctor was hardly proof–and with all the trouble behind them, Mal didn't much care to consider the implications if it _was_ true. Wasn't his business, not when there was a job to be done...

"Mal..." Inara took a step forward, her hands twisting in the folds of her robe. Mal had an uneasiness settle on him. Inara _this_ nervous about something couldn't be a good sign. Last time she'd been so fussed, it was when she told him she was leaving _Serenity_.

His imagination immediately shoved into overdrive. She was leaving again. The Guild had reinstated her and she was going back to the school. She was eloping with Zeke Harkness–no, hang on. Mal got a grip on himself. That was plain silly. "You want some tea?" he asked, moving toward the kitchen and giving her a chance to compose her thoughts. And for him to settle his.

And suddenly she was standing _right there_, fingers reaching out to brush his face again, just as she had at Zeke's station. He froze in the act of reaching for a kettle. This time her fingers lingered a little longer, tracing the lines the war had carved around his eyes and mouth. "I was worried," she whispered. "I'm glad you weren't hurt."

Then, before he could react, before he could do anything (he _knew_ there was an appropriate action here, he just couldn't think of it at the moment), she was gone. She could move very, very fast when she felt like it. He was too stunned to think much that made any kind of sense, let alone go after her. He could still feel her touch, ghostlike, on his face.

Calling their relationship difficult was about like calling a Reaver aggressive. Didn't come close to describing it. He never had thought Inara felt much for him beyond annoyance, until the whole thing at the Heart of Gold. He knew he'd hurt her bad, bedding Nandi as he had–and he figured it was why she'd left. Mal never had viewed sex with a casual eye; between God and his ma, he'd always had it driven into his head that physical love was something real special, and not to be treated like an amusement ride. Even now, with his back turned on God and his ma long dead, he couldn't move past the idea that you didn't go to bed with someone unless you had a real, honest-as-the-black _feeling_ between the pair of you. He'd liked Nandi, a whole lot–and if was more than honest with himself, he'd been feeling in powerful need of comfort that night, and she was offering...Inara accused him of being puritanical about sex, and maybe he was–but it didn't change the fact that he couldn't view a Companion's "job" with anything but distaste. Treating sex as a business transaction made it all meaningless. And where Inara was concerned...He hated the idea that there were men (and women) out there who saw her as nothing but merchandise, who couldn't or wouldn't look past the Companion and the sex to see the real Inara. The woman who was kind to a young mechanic from a dirt-poor background, who was about as far from Inara socially as was possible to get. The woman who always had a warm smile for those who needed it. Who was willing to argue with him until they were blue in the face, and still forgive him and offer aid when he needed a gentler hand than his or Zoe's with the crew. Who had willingly held hands and bandaged wounds and offered comfort when any of them were sick or bleeding, who had put on grubby clothes and helped paint and clean and repair _Serenity_ after Miranda. Who had stood and faced the worst horrors in the 'verse while he left her behind, for no other reason than because it was right. The woman he wanted more than anything else in the 'verse, and who he was fair certain he could never have.

Mal stared at the kettle in his hand, wondering how it had gotten there. He put it away, mind still dwelling on Inara. Things between them were shifting now. She was suspended from the Guild, and so far as he could tell had not yet made attempts at reinstatement. He didn't know if it was because she was still coming to terms with what the Alliance she'd always supported had done–or because of him. He didn't dare hope it was the latter–and yet he couldn't ignore the whole shifting-thing. It was scary as hell. He knew very well that a broken-up, mule-stubborn browncoat like himself had nothing to offer her. He wouldn't ask her to give up being a Companion; he'd no right to. He didn't have the courage to admit to her how he felt.

His head hurting and his stomach in knots from frustration and bewilderment, Mal wandered down the stairs toward the infirmary, wishing Shepherd Book were still alive. Man might never have married, but he'd been damn good at insight into the working's of people's minds. Even women's minds, which had always been an impenetrable mystery to Mal himself. The Shepherd would have told him all manner of things Mal didn't want to hear–but it would have been all kinds of sensible, and in the end Mal probably would have done it. Even if it meant actually being truthful with Inara. But Book was gone, and Mal would have to work all this out himself. It was very depressing.

The couches near the infirmary were usually a good place to sit and think (or at least, they had been before Mal started catching Simon and Kaylee there on a regular basis) and Mal was in need of some pondering.

Simon and Kaylee were, much to Mal's relief, entertaining themselves elsewhere tonight–but the couch was not unoccupied. The Doctor was there instead, slouched on the worn cushions, bare feet propped on the table. His suit jacket was draped over the back of the couch beside him, and the collar of his dark blue shirt was unbuttoned two or three down, showing a brown tee shirt beneath. Beside him sat a pair of bright yellow canvas shoes similar in style, if not in color, to the ones he'd had on earlier. His specs were perched on his nose, and he was reading a book.

Mal's thoughts pushed themselves off the knotty issue of Inara. He'd had time, earlier, to think over some of what the Doctor had said, and he'd come to some conclusions he felt he ought to discuss with his odd passenger. With this in mind, he moved to stand across from the Doctor, thumbs hooked in his belt.

The Doctor appeared thoroughly engrossed in his book, but Mal had caught the flicker of eye as he'd entered the room; the Doctor knew perfectly well he was there. Mal waited.

Finally the Doctor surrendered, and looked up from his book. "Captain Reynolds. You're looming _so _very well, I can't help but feel you have something to say to me."

"Could say that," agreed Mal, and sat down at the other end of the couch. The Doctor politely turned to face him, closing his book over one finger. Mal glanced at the cover, noticing that it was bound in leather. Expensive book. "_The Time Machine_," he read.

The Doctor smiled slightly. "Yes. Old favorite of mine." He drew the fingers of his free hand over the book's cover in a caress. "H.G. Wells. Brilliant imagination. Always wanted to meet him."

"You're a reader," said Mal bluntly.

The Doctor blinked at him, a puzzled look creasing his face. "Well...yes? Favorite hobby of mine, I love books..." He stared at Mal as though he'd just grown an extra head.

"No, I mean...you're psychic." Mal knew he was going out on a limb here, but nothing else made _sense_. It had to be this.

The bewilderment vanished, and the Doctor's eyebrows shot upwards. "Am I? Why do you say that?"

"Stuff you said, back in the woods. About 'it'–and I'm guessin' you meant the Reaver–getting past your 'shields.' About what was in its mind. You're a psychic."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed, and Mal knew he'd hit a nerve. "Very clever," he said in a soft, not-entirely-happy voice. "Brilliant, in fact."

"Not really. Just basic arithmetic."

"Mmm. But most people aren't very good at adding together a few odd remarks and coming up with a sum of 'psychic.'" Those dark eyes had that eerie-ass look in them again. Mal wished he could figure out just _why_ it was so creepifying. Made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Well–are you? Psychic, I mean?"

The other man sighed, and pulled of his specs. He set the book aside. "Yes," he admitted finally. "...for a given value of 'psychic.'"

"And that means what, exactly?" Mal fought to keep his voice from sounding belligerent. He'd told the man earlier that he'd earned a bit of trust; he wasn't about to go back on that word by pushing too hard.

"I guess you could call me telepathic," said the Doctor. "Among other things."

Mal wondered what "other things" might be, but decided now wasn't the time to ask. "Okay. That explains a few other things."

"Really? Like what?"

"Just..." Mal sighed. "Look, Doctor, I've only ever known one other reader and while I'm fond of her as can be, River Tam ain't exactly _sane_."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "She's psychic?" He looked a bit startled.

"Yeah–you couldn't tell?"

"No, I just thought she...oh. Oh, dear." The Doctor's eyes were distant, caught in some idea that clearly fussed him some. He shook himself slightly, apparently forcing himself to focus back on Mal. "So–you think I'm crazy."

"Most folk are crazy," said Mal dryly. "But yeah, you bein' a reader explains why you're odder than most."

"Well...it's _an_ explanation." The Doctor half-smiled.

"I rest my case," replied Mal. Satisfied, he rose, then frowned. "You ain't pickin' thoughts out of my head, are you? Bad enough River does it..." he trailed off as the Doctor's gaze sharpened. That's interesting, thought Mal. The man was fair burning with curiosity–over what? A comment about River?

"No," said the Doctor. "No, I'm not reading your thoughts. Bit rude, doing something like that without permission. I usually don't enter other people's heads, as a rule. My own thoughts are company enough, thank you–and it's _so_ hard to keep a good opinion of someone when you've just seen what they're _really_ thinking."

"So...you can control it?"

"Of course I can." The Doctor was squinting all narrow-eyed at him again. "And River can't?"

Mal realized that Simon would probably be very not happy if he knew his sister was being discussed with a virtual stranger. While he didn't much care about the young doctor's opinion of him, he _did_ worry that River might not like it. After all, it was her broken head. "You'll have to talk to her about it," he said. "Or her brother."

"Of course," said the Doctor, replacing his spectacles on his face and picking up his book again. "I hope the fact that I'm a 'reader' isn't going to complicate your life overmuch, Captain."

"Not unless you've recently escaped from an Alliance lab and they want you back. Though I can't say I haven't had experience with that, so I figure we could handle it even if that were the case."

"I dislike being experimented upon, so I try and stay out of other people's laboratories." The Doctor opened up _The Time Machine_, apparently finding his place again without any trouble at all.

Mal realized he was being dismissed, and didn't care for it. On the other hand, he'd started it by getting up, so he couldn't really complain. He salved his dignity some by walking away without saying anything. He was pretty certain the Doctor didn't even notice.

He had a lot to think on now, as he walked back through the quiet ship toward his quarters. The Doctor had confirmed Mal's suggestion he might be a reader willingly enough, but had managed to be evasive all the same. 'A given value of psychic' was an odd way of saying things. But then...as he'd said, Mal's only experience with a reader was River Tam–and she was only occasionally really lucid. She was improving, now that Miranda no longer burned up her brain, but most days a conversation with her felt like falling down the rabbit hole. (_Alice in Wonderland_ was one book Mal _hadn't_ fought his mother about reading as a kid.) It made sense that the Doctor, who was probably twice her age, was lucid most of the time and only occasionally slipped into crazy-talk. Like not knowing the year, or that really odd remark about 'lost colonists.' And the lack of name. It also seemed sensible that, given more years and experience, the Doctor, unlike River, had managed to find a way to block out the input of the world around him–provided, of course, that he'd been made psychic the same way she had. For all Mal knew, maybe the man was a natural-born reader. Maybe it was someone like him that made the Alliance decide to try their hand at manufacturing their own psychics.

But no...that didn't seem as likely. Man hadn't exactly _denied_ he'd escaped from a lab, just said he didn't like being experimented on. Mal was more willing to buy the idea that the Doctor was an earlier example of the same experiment the Alliance had done on River and the mysterious 'others' he'd heard about from Simon. That, like River, he'd escaped and stayed out of Alliance hands. Mal could find a world of sympathy for him, were that the case.

Of course, if that _were_ the case, it also meant that the Doctor was a living weapon, just like River Tam. And that was an unsettling thought, the idea of having _two_ assassins of questionable stability on board his ship. It meant, to Mal's mind, just what River had said.

A storm was coming.


	15. Chapter 15: Snares

**Updated Author's Note: Over the past couple of days, I've been prepping this story and posting it over at the Doctor Who fanfic site "A Teaspoon and an Open Mind." While I was at it, I figured it was the right time to fix a few of the glaring plot holes that have existed since I finished this tale more than a year and a half ago. Seemed only fair to allow my dear readers here at ff.n to see the fix too. :) So here we go. I didn't want to do a huge amount of rewriting–as I'm pretty content, overall, with the story as it stands–so in this chapter there's one very small fix. There was an inconsistency between the job as Badger described it, and what the crew and the Doctor subsequently found at Renier Enterprises. This was mostly a dumb oversight on the writer's part; between writing Badger's pitch of the job and the infiltration of Renier Enterprises, LTD, the plot had undergone a **_**huge**_** shift, and I forgot to go back and adjust a few minor details. Since I'm content with Badger's description–after all, he's on Persephone, and only hearing things via rumors–I decided to simply have Kaylee mention to the Doctor that one of the reasons they're all splitting up is because all they've got to go on is rumors. If you don't feel like re-reading the entire chapter, the correction begins on the line "**She giggled a little**..." Cheers!**

**Original Author's Note: Gosh, it's been a seriously long time since I posted. I am so sorry! Life happens, and often it happens in an extremely inconvenient manner. New jobs, moving, and now school has started again. Of course, ironically, I seem to write more diligently _during_ the semester than otherwise. Perhaps because it's an excuse to avoid my homework...**

**Anyway, hopefully the next delay won't be so long, though it may be a bit before I have internet up and running in my new place. :p In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day: "You learn to see such details when you're used to the bitchiness of Time Lord society." --The Eighth Doctor, Big Finish 30 "Seasons of Fear"**

**________________________________________________  
**

"I watch the heavens but I find no calling

Something I can do to change what's coming

Stay close to me while the sky is falling

Don't wanna be left alone, don't wanna be alone..."

–Sarah McLachlan, "World on Fire"

The terraforming of Paquin had kicked up a unique atmospheric mix, the end result being a slightly orangish tint to the sky overhead that produced spectacular sunrises and sunsets, which in turned formed the scenic basis for Paquin's thriving tourist industry. _Serenity_ made planetfall some hours before dawn, and so as the crew prepared to scatter and gather further information regarding the supposed alien and its owner they were just in time to catch one of the famous sunrises.

The Doctor stood, one hand buried in a coat pocket, the other dancing the disc of metal he'd found in the woods on Three Hills over his knuckles, watching the sunrise over the crowded buildings of the docks. He both loathed and cherished sunrises. He'd seen so many, on thousands of worlds, in thousands of ages, all of them beautiful, but always they told of another day gone, another length of time between himself and everything he'd ever lost. It should have seemed strange, that a single day's time should mean so much to a man who had seen so many centuries (and only admitted to nine of them out loud) but there it was. He'd given up his claim to being a logical, sensible creature a long time ago.

The orange sky overhead now plucked more deeply at old hurts, and for a moment he gave into the ache, allowed himself to see–just for a moment–another sky, this one a darker burnt orange, with twin suns overhead and mountains far bigger than any of these humans around him had ever dreamt of stretching into infinity, and there on the edge of sight a great glittering dome full of the promise of enlightenment and company and the threat of confinement and stagnation...

And he shoved the memories away, with the familiar mix of grief and guilt and turned away from the sky in time to see Kaylee, bright as a tropical flower in her patterned t-shirt, the sleeves of her mechanic's coveralls tied around her waist. There was, he noticed, a fuzzy teddy bear patch sewn onto one leg of the coveralls. That struck him as very Kaylee.

She gave him a tentative smile. "What's wrong, Doctor?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You looked so sad," she replied, looking sad herself at the thought. "Standin' there, watchin' the sky."

He gave her a smile. It wasn't a very good one, he feared, being rather small and wistful in light of the thoughts in his head. "Oh...just remembering." He looked away. "It doesn't matter." He looked back at her, and produced a better smile. "I'm fine." He took in the rest of the crew, standing in scattered groups on the ramp and in the hold, going over the final details of the day's work. Simon stood a few feet behind Kaylee, talking quietly with his sister, though he shot glances toward the mechanic and the Doctor from time to time. "Heading off to case the joint?" the Doctor asked her.

She giggled a little. "Sorta. There ain't been much information 'bout this alien on the Cortex, just rumors that some guy named Carson Renier's got one. Even Badger couldn't give us much more'n that, so the Cap'n wants us to find out how we might get a closer look at it, 'fore we figure out how to steal it." She tilted her head, smiling sweetly at him. "River and me are gonna go look around at some of the sideshows, see what we can learn from the carnies. You wanna come?"

"I'd love to!" said the Doctor, genuinely pleased. He'd planned to attach himself to one of the groups anyhow, but it was always nicer to get an invite rather than just _going_. He caught the look on Simon's face over Kaylee's head. "Isn't Simon coming?"

"Naw. His turn to stay with the ship, make sure no one steals it or somethin'."

The Doctor, still eyeing the expression on the young doctor's face, felt compelled to add, "I don't think your boyfriend likes me very much."

Kaylee's bright brown eyes twinkled. "That's 'cause you're so _shwie_. Simon's worried I'm gonna decide to dump him and chase you instead." She eyed the Doctor over with frank appraisal, and he felt his ears getting a little warm. "It's fun to make him sweat a bit," she said, dropping her voice so her lover couldn't hear. "Simon's a bit silly sometimes. I ain't plannin' to do any such thing."

"Oh. That's good." The Doctor felt faintly relieved.

"Still," she added, a wicked glint in her eye. "'Til he figures it out, it don't hurt none to admire _your_ cute backside in the meantime." With that parting shot, she turned and walked back over to Simon and River, wrapping her arms around the young man's waist and leaving the Doctor to flounder in acute embarrassment. All these centuries, and he still didn't know what to do with remarks like that...Casting around for a distraction, he spotted Mal coming down _Serenity's_ ramp, pulling on his gloves.

"Captain," he said in greeting, smiling broadly. "Good morning!"

"Hope you're plannin' to maker yourself useful today, Doc," said Mal curtly.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream otherwise," replied the Doctor coolly. "Kaylee has invited me to accompany her and River. I trust that's acceptable?"

Mal considered this, frowning some. "I don't need anyone gettin' into trouble today," he said, eyeing the Doctor with an expression that said he very clearly considered the other man to be a trouble magnet. The Doctor felt this was a bit unfair, since he hadn't even _gotten _into trouble yet. "Don't need you attractin' attention."

"Oh, I blend very well," the Doctor assured him, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Mal did not look convinced. "The girls can take care of themselves, mostly," he said. "But if you're goin' along with 'em, then you're to be gatherin' information just like the rest of us." He gave the Doctor a significant look. "See what you can...pick up."

The Doctor hesitated, sensing that a discussion of the finer nuances of telepathic ability–such as the fact that he really _wasn't_ the kind of mind-reader Mal thought he was–was probably not something to bring up just now. Besides, it wasn't as if the captain would know the difference, right? "Of course," he said evasively.

The captain nodded curtly, and turned away to speak with Zoe. The Doctor sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. _Why_ was he allowing this man to order him about? It was starting to go beyond the uncharacteristic desire to keep a low profile. Perhaps it was because, as yet, he'd seen very little sign of the usual sorts of crises he dealt with. His fingers closed over the little metal tag in his pocket. Little sign, indeed.

What was worse, he'd had a devil of a time gaining the information he wanted about this time and place. Oh, he'd gotten the basic history easily enough, proving his theory that this lot was, indeed, descended from the Lost Colonists of the early twenty second century. They all thought Earth no longer existed, that it was lost–well, that made sense. Shortly after the original colonists' departure Earth had undergone a succession of alien invasions, and was so busy fighting and rebuilding that the colonists had been all but forgotten. But why had contact never been reestablished? It was almost as if this little corner of the Universe was isolated, kept separate from the rest. And why _weren't_ there any nonhumans about? It was extremely interesting.

But history was the bulk of it. He knew the details about the war, now eight years past, and he'd already known that Malcolm Reynolds and Zoe had been soldiers in it. He knew that most of _Serenity's_ crew were wanted by the Alliance–smuggling and illegal salvage seemed to form the bulk of the charges–but that they were also wanted in relation to something the government was calling "the Miranda conspiracy."

Information about "Miranda" was almost nonexistent. Rumors and speculations, and everywhere signs that the Powers That Be had done their utmost to erase anything to do with it. The Doctor considered himself quite good at making computers and databases talk to him, but he wasn't a professional hacker and doubted that he could get past the barriers and such to the truth without setting off a great many alarms. This did not fuss him particularly; he preferred hearing things from an organic being, not a computer.

It was the Reavers he'd been most interested in, but again he'd found little more than rumors and campfire tales. 'Men gone savage on the edge of space,' cannibals and unspeakable madmen–monsters in the dark, really. None of it explained the unfathomable well of rage and agony he'd experienced on Three Hills. That didn't happen simply from going nutters in deep space. The few rumors he'd found in relation to _Serenity_ and the Reavers was that they'd found evidence the government had created the Reavers. Which would, of course, explain _why_ the government so disliked Mal and his crew. A military experiment gone wrong–he'd seen that a hundred times. And it might explain the strange little psychic tags, an attempt to gain control over something uncontrollable.

"Too many questions," the Doctor muttered. "And I don't even know which ones to ask."

Simon took his sister by the shoulders. "Be careful," he said. "Stay with Kaylee and don't wander off."

River rolled her eyes. "Not a child, Simon."

"I know that, _meimei_, but–" he broke off as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

"I'll be all right," she assured him. "The storm will keep me safe."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. Sometime _very_ soon he was going to have to sit down and have a chat with that girl. Psychic she might or might not be, and while a psychic human with no real control over her abilities _might_ be able to pick up basic surface thoughts and ideas from people around her–even from Time Lords with centuries of practice at keeping their heads to themselves–there was no way she could pick up something so linked to his past and self like that. Not without slipping right past his defenses and going far, far deeper than she should be able to. And all without him noticing a thing. Just like the Reaver in the woods...

There seemed to be a disconcerting number of people around here with a free, full-access pass to his head.

Simon still looked unhappy about letting his sister go. The boy was desperately protective of her. Feeling sorry for him–and understanding a bit how he felt–the Doctor stepped up to him, putting a hand on River's shoulder. "Don't worry," he told the young man. "I'll keep an eye on her."

Simon looked torn between suspicion and gratitude, and finally settled on the gratitude. "Thank you," he said in his quiet voice. "I'd appreciate that."

The Doctor beamed at him. "Good man," he said warmly. And then, because he couldn't resist, he added, "I'll keep an eye on Kaylee, too," and winked. He turned and strolled away, feeling Simon's glare like the heat of a fire on his back.

***

Jayne disappeared somewhere, presumably to gather information but probably just to look for a drink. Inara watched Kaylee and River walk away from _Serenity_, arms linked, both giggling. She smiled. It was wonderful to see River take such joy in life, to have a chance to be a child for once. It gave her hope that the strange, gifted girl might someday find healing.

Her smile faded as she watched the tall, skinny shape of the Doctor trail after them, hands jammed into the pockets of his long coat, an abstracted frown on his narrow face."You're sending him with the girls?" she asked, sensing Mal come up behind her.

"I figure they're the least likely to get into trouble," he replied, moving around to stand beside her.

"The Alliance may still want River," she reminded him.

Mal slanted a glance, half-amused, half-challenging, down at her. "What, and he'll turn her in? You still don't trust him?"

"Why should I? You don't."

"Yeah, well..." Mal rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Man sorta saved my life, back on Three Hills."

"So did the Operative, and you'd probably shoot him if you ever saw him again."

"That was...different."

"How?"

"Look, 'Nara, the Doc went after a Reaver _with his bare hands_ to keep the gorram thing off me. That's worth a bit more in my book than just callin' off some Alliance soldiers 'bout to shoot us. And he ain't done anything that says he means us any harm." The hand moved from his neck to rub over his hair, leaving it sticking up in back. "I ain't sayin' I trust him, not really. But he has earned somethin' close to it, at least for a spell."

She sighed. "I suppose. I just wish we knew who he really was."

"Darlin', ain't a one of us in this 'verse knows who anyone else _really_ is." He grinned crookedly at her. "'Cept maybe River, and that's only 'cause she cheats."

Inara smiled at that, and just possibly at his unthinking use of the word 'darlin.' "Perhaps," she agreed. Her eyes went back toward the trio, but they had already vanished around a corner.

Mal's fingertips brushed her arm, so lightly she might have imagined the touch. She turned to meet his grave blue eyes anyway. "They'll be all right," he said quietly.

"I'm sure they will. But if you don't mind, Mal, I'll worry a bit about it anyway."

A teasing light came into his eyes, and he opened his mouth. But what he might have taunted her about she never knew, because they both turned at the sound of feet on the ramp. Zoe stood at the top, hands cradling her abdomen in a gesture Inara had come to recognize as worry, though her face remained stony as ever.

Mal recognized the posture as well, because he spoke instantly. "What's wrong?"

"Got a wave, sir. Think you'd better come see it."

Inara shared a worried glance with the captain. Who would be trying to contact them all the way out here? Mal looked back to his second and nodded. "Serious?"

Zoe's face grew, if possible, even grimmer. "You'd....just better come and see, sir."

***

Bright, off key music from a calliope spilled into the muggy morning air, accompanied by the smell of sweets and burnt popcorn and animal dung. The bouquet of carnival, the same that could be found on a thousand worlds the universe over. The Doctor had always had a special place in his hearts for carnivals, though he'd never determined precisely _why_. Perhaps it was the same nameless attraction that nearly every sentient species in creation shared. Or perhaps he just felt at home amongst the freaks and geeks.

A little ways ahead of him, Kaylee and River giggled together over bright, gaudy gimcrack displayed in a vendor's stall. He smiled at the sight. He didn't get to see people just being _happy_ very much these days, it seemed. Humming softly under his breath, he pulled out the Reaver tag once more, twirling it between his fingers. Sarah Jane would have really liked those two girls, he thought, then the metal disc in his hand stilled as he paused in surprise. Why had she sprung to mind so suddenly? Thinking of her was scarcely less painful than thinking of Rose, although it was a far older and familiar pain. One of several, really, as other faces came to his mind's eye. Gods, he was going to get maudlin if he wasn't careful...Then he shrugged mentally and vowed that–if she let him–he'd drop in for tea one of these days. Surely they could manage that now...He set the tag dancing in his fingers again, steering his thoughts determinedly away from _that_ direction. The tag. Odd little thing. Where had it come from? Who in this benighted corner of the universe could possibly have the skill to make such a thing? What the hell was it _for_?

Why couldn't he stop playing with it?

A flash of something out the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head, frowning, to see...nothing. Well, not _nothing_, exactly, since there were loads of people out and about, but nothing suspicion-worthy. He turned his own movement into a more casual tourist-scanning-the-scenery sort of thing, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but still saw nothing to grab his attention. Ah, well. Half-consciously, he started the tag dancing over his knuckles again, letting the sounds of the carnival wash over him. He was aware of Kaylee haggling with the vendor. For such a sweet-tempered girl, she was a startlingly vicious bargainer, and he started to grin at the vendor's muttered Chinese profanities and pained looks. River was silent now, the moment of unguarded girlish behavior past, and her grave dark eyes were watching the vendor intently. The Doctor ran a fingertip over the smooth beveled edge of the tag, turning his gaze away from the girls to study a brightly painted poster advertising "The Most Fearsome Freaks in the 'Verse!"

Again something flickered on the edge of his vision, and again he tried to focus on it. Nothing. His breath hissed between his teeth in frustration, and with a sudden, almost violent motion he shoved the tag back into his coat pocket.

It was right then that River screamed.

**Chinese Translations:**

_**shwie**_**: Handsome**

_**meimei**_**: Little Sister**


	16. Chapter 16: Dead Man

**Author's Note: As promised, the delay wasn't nearly so bad this time. :) Just one more week, and I'll have internet at my own apartment again, and I won't have to come to the computer lab. I hate labs. I feel like a fish in a bowl...**

**Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day: "I scare very, very easily. Budgies unnerve me. Gerbils throw me into a state of panic. Don't even mention rabbits." --Eighth Doctor, _City of the Dead_**

**Scary Doctor Quote of the Day:** **"Was that supposed ot frighten me? I've seen entire species destroyed, civilizations left in ruins. I've witnessed solar systems vanish in the twinkling of an eye. I've seen things that would freeze your blood. So don't threaten me. Don't _ever_ threaten me." --Eighth Doctor, Big Finish Production "Phobos" (If you think this doesn't sound like the sweet-natured Eight we all know from the film, well...this is much later in his life, and he's gotten rather dark by this point.)**

**

* * *

  
**

"Every ghost that calls upon us

Brings another measure in the mystery

Death is there

To keep us honest

And constantly remind us we are free"

–Dan Fogelberg, "Ghosts"

Zeke Harkness's face, streaked with blood and grime, filled the vidscreen. His eyes were wide with terror, but there was a determined set to his jaw that Mal had never seen before. "...hope y'all get this. Got no idea if I'll even get it offworld before..." he broke off, swallowing hard, and glanced behind him. The sounds of battle and screaming were clearly audible.

Mal glanced at the date in the lower corner of the screen. Two days old, recorded just about twenty four hours after _Serenity_ broke atmo on Three Hills.

"Listen," said Zeke urgently into the screen, raising his voice over the sounds of carnage. "They showed up, outta nowhere. Reavers, a whole two ships full. They caught us by surprise, which ain't unusual. But...Malcolm, they ain't actin' right. We got defenses right enough, we've stood up to Reaver attacks before. Even caught by surprise, they shouldn't have been able to take us all. But these–they're _organized_. Actin' like gorram soldiers, almost, 'cept for the eating of folk and the rest of it. But I've seen battle, just like you, and I know when someone's obeyin' orders and when they're just killin'. These Reavers, Malcolm, they're being _told_ what t'do.

"They've already wiped out Helltown and most of Guangxi. Everyone that's left is holed up here at the station, but we ain't gonna last much longer. We've sent out distress calls to the feds, but you can figure on the response." Zeke wiped his brow with a badly shaking hand. "It's a ghost that's talkin' to you over this wave, Malcolm. I'm sorry. I know how you are about stuff, but don't you go thinkin' this is your fault. Just...just find out what the hell happened to us, Malcolm Reynolds. Find out _why_, and kill the gorram sonsabitches that're behind this. I know I can trust you for that." He drew an unsteady breath. "And–and if you could let my sister on Ariel know...don't tell her how...just..." He was interrupted by an almighty crash, and terrible screams and yells drowned out anything else he might have said. They saw him turn, screaming something incomprehensible, and stagger as a dark shape barreled into him. Blood spattered the vidscreen, then something heavy struck it and the image dissolved, mercifully, into snow.

A long, strained silence stretched over the bridge. Mal could feel his nails cutting into his palms, knew that if he looked down he would see bone showing yellow through his skin, his hands were clenched so tight.

_Somewhere out there, there is something terrible happening–something I can stop, or help you stop. _The Doctor's words to him at their meeting came back, echoing in the horrified silences of his mind. And, worse, his more recent words. _I'd say this little item charged up with psychic energy isn't just for tracking, it's for controlling._

Had he known about this before? It seemed almost possible, given how swiftly he'd identified that little bit of metal as a 'tag' back on Three Hills. Slow rage built in Mal's belly, hotter than hellfire and corrosive as acid. Wasn't right, what happened on Three Hills, to Zeke, to Ricky, to the nameless shopkeep who'd shown them little kindnesses. Wasn't right when it happened to anyone in this godforsaken 'verse, but they'd already survived a Reaver attack, had faced down the terrors in the woods. They should have been left alone to get on with their lives, not fall prey to the nightmare. If the Doctor had known of this, known of Reavers behaving strangely, and he hadn't said...then was it his fault?

_Don't be jumpin' to conclusions, boy. Not until you got all the facts._ He could hear the Shepherd's voice in his head. Or was it his ma's voice? Funny, how much she and Book had been alike...

He raised his eyes to Inara's white face, to Zoe's hard, steely gaze. Inara had one hand pressed hard over her mouth, the other to her belly, as though she were giving thought to getting sick. Zoe looked impassive, but Mal didn't need to be a reader to know that she was seeing her husband's corpse, skewered to the very chair she now sat in.

He opened his mouth–but to say what? Words could not fight past the knot of grief and rage and guilt in his throat. It did not matter that they had barely known any of the folk on Three Hills, that Zeke could hardly be considered a true ally, let alone a friend. He saw Ricky's young face, determined and terrified and heartbreakingly brave. Saw Zeke willing to cross someone like Mal for the sake of his own people. And now they were gone, in the most horrible way this 'verse could offer.

He reached out, touched Inara's shoulder, drew her into the circle of his arm. She clung to him, still too shocked to weep, just as she has been on Miranda, but she shuddered under his hands. His eyes met Zoe's, and wordlessly extended his other arm. She regarded it for a moment, her positions as his second and his best friend warring in her face. Then she got awkwardly up from the chair and allowed him to draw her in as well, the swell of her child pressing hard against his side.

Life in the face of death, thought Mal, holding close the two women who meant more to him than anyone else in the universe. And we're damn well gonna _thrive_, no matter what comes. We're gonna survive. We're gonna find out what happened, and put a stop to it.

It was time to get some answers out of the Doctor.

***

It was more than a scream of terror, or anger, or pain. It was some awful mixture of all those emotions, keening out of the girl's throat like a banshee's cry. The people immediately around them froze in shock at the horror of it, and the wail seemed to stretch on into forever. Hearts in his throat, the Doctor darted forward, reaching out to catch River as she crumpled. Kaylee stood, one hand still hovering over the vendor's tray, her eyes wide and shocky and her face ghost-white as she stared at her friend.

River felt light and fragile as a bird against him as he bore her up into his arms, her thin frame shaking as though caught in a high fever. Her dark eyes stared blindly, her face twisted as if in pain. He could feel distress pouring off her in great waves, but he could not understand the source of it.

"River? River, what is it?"

No response. She was no longer screaming audibly, but her mouth remained open and distorted. Tentatively, the Doctor lowered his own mental shields, letting thin tendrils of the artron energy that powered his abilities reach out into the psychic atmosphere. For one brief moment, he thought he felt the brush of an alien consciousness, something not human, but then...

Nothing.

"Doctor?" Kaylee's voice was small, and frightened. He glanced round at the staring crowd. So much for not drawing attention.

"Let's go somewhere quieter," he said softly, and turned to walk swiftly toward a side street, ignoring queries and curious remarks from the others.

Two blocks from the big midway they found a small park, still quiet and all but empty at this hour of morning. The Doctor located a bench and carefully laid River's frail form down upon it, crouching down beside her and stroking damp hair back from her forehead.

Kaylee, hunched next to him, was struggling not to cry. "River, honey?" She reached out a shaking hand to touch the other girl's arm gently. "River?"

At last River blinked, and drew a great shuddering breath. "Too many," she whispered hoarsely. "Too much. There was no warning. No time to prepare."

Now the little mechanic did begin to sob. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie!" she cried. "I–I didn't think about the crowds!"

Automatically, the Doctor reached out to put an arm around the young woman's shoulders, fishing with his other hand in a coat pocket for a handkerchief. His fingers brushed the metal disc, and he saw River stiffen even as, once more, something flickered at the edge of his vision. He resisted the urge to turn and look for it this time, but he strongly suspected that River's words had very little to do with the psychic pressure of the carnival crowds. He pulled out a large, spotted handkerchief (clean, he was grateful to note) and pressed it into Kaylee's hand. "It's all right," he murmured soothingly to her. "It's not your fault."

"Simon didn't want her to go," moaned Kaylee, tears dripping off her chin. "I thought it would be fun for her!"

The Doctor patted her on the back, still making comforting noises, but his eyes remained on River. "What happened, River?" he asked.

Her gaze was steady now, boring into his. "I saw," she said solemnly. "Too much. Again." Her eyes flicked briefly to Kaylee, then back to him with an expression that said quite clearly: _No explanations now._

He nodded slightly, lifting an eyebrow at her._ Later, then._

Then her eyes shifted to something beyond his left shoulder. "Too late," she said. "They're here."

The Doctor turned, just in time to catch a fist to his jaw.

****

Mal wasn't rightly sure if Simon was going to faint or not. He'd never pegged the young doc for the fainting type, but as he watched the boy's face grow steadily whiter as he passed on the news about Three Hills he figured there was probably a first time for everything.

Alike, River had called them. Well, it was truer than he liked, but watching Simon's face now he figured he could guess exactly what the other man was thinking. The same round of thoughts going through his own head. Neither of them had strong ties to Three Hills, but where Reaver attacks were concerned that hardly mattered. But there was more to the grief and shock than sorrow for folks who got a fate _no one_ deserved; there was a whole gorram lot of worry and fear. Like whether or not these abnormal Reavers–hah, what a phrase–and their shadowy slavemaster were real. And if they were, and the folk of Three Hills were slaughtered to protect their secret, as Mal was beginning to suspect, then would they be coming for _Serenity_ next? They'd survived the battle over Mr. Universe's world mostly by sheer foolish stubborn luck. Simon got shot, and that set his sister off–Mal wasn't sure he cared to risk all their lives on the off chance that, a..) River was steady enough in the brainpan to repeat the stunt willingly or, b.) Simon would get shot again. Pounding bounty hunters into the dust was one thing; facing down the Reavers that crawled inside her head with rage and insanity was somethin' else entirely.

"Do you..." Simon's voice was husky. He paused, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Do you think Harkness was right? You don't think he was panicking over–over the fact that they weren't going to be able to drive the Reavers off?"

Mal hesitated. He had wondered exactly that, for all of a minute. He shook his head. "I never served with Zeke Harkness in battle, but I know his reputation. He was a good soldier–" _though not as good a soldier as me, he learned how to __**stop**__ bein' a soldier–_"and you don't forget how to use your combat eyes, not ever. If he says someone was giving those Reavers orders and they were followin' them, then I'll take him at his word."

Simon swallowed, hard. "Do–do you think we're in danger, then?"

"Ain't sure. Probably; we're always in danger, seems like." Mal rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll tell you this, though–as of right now Badger's job has just hit the airlock. Zeke and his folk are owed justice, and I aim to give it to 'em."

He could see the agreement on Simon's face, but knew that the doctor would feel compelled to question this, on general principles if nothing else. He was not disappointed. "Is it our place?"

"We were there. Hell, we may very well have brought it on them, killin' those Reavers in the woods and findin' those tags."

"You don't know that."

_Not for sure, I don't, but I sure as hell wouldn't lay any bets._ "Maybe not–but Zeke asked me to give 'em justice. Death request and all that."

"You didn't like Zeke."

"Don't like most folk. Don't mean they don't deserve someone to speak for them." Mal's skin prickled in irritation. Dammit, he _knew_ Simon agreed, deep down. Why couldn't he just agree and leave Mal to worry about it all in peace?

Simon sighed. "Badger is going to be seriously unhappy. And it doesn't solve our cash problems."

_I hate you._ "Thank you, doc," he said instead, keeping his voice very dry. "I wasn't aware of that. Anything else you'd like to point out, I might have missed?"

Simon flushed.

"I'll deal with Badger," said Mal. "That's my job, not yours."

The young doctor sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Mal," he said. "It's just..." He broke off, for once before he shoved his foot in his mouth.

"I get all hell-bent on crusadin' for justice," Mal finished for him. "Believe me, doc, I'm well aware of this particular character flaw. I ain't askin' you to follow me."

Simon's eyes narrowed, a spark of amusement chasing away some of the darkness. "No, you never ask. You _order._"

Mal allowed a soft snort of laughter to escape him. "Somethin' like that. Figured I ought to warn you, though. Give you time to clear out."

"You think I would desert now?" Simon's voice was soft, and icy cold.

_And just when did you become a soldier, boy, to talk about deserting?_

_When you made him one, on Miranda._

_Oh. Ta ma duh._

"No," said Mal aloud. "I don't."

***

Stars exploded across his eyeballs, followed closely by an eruption of pain in his jaw, which was quickly replaced by a larger pain as he hit the ground hard enough to force the air from his lungs. For a few panicky heartsbeats his chest ached as his lungs struggled to work around the shock, then his body's respiratory bypass system overrode them and the pain subsided into a faint throbbing in ribs and jaw. He lay still anyway, giving himself time to assess the situation. Best to let them, whoever _they_ were, believe him human and breathless. He managed some credible fishlike gasping.

Kaylee, eyes terrified but jaw set determinedly, was standing over River in a defensive stance. River was still prone. _Playing possum?_ He hoped so, in case this lot weren't susceptible to verbal negotiations. He'd overheard enough from the rest of the crew to guess that River's small size and negligible weight were deceptive.

There were four of them, mostly large and muscular looking chaps. Three had the look of your typical hired-thug found the universe over, but the fourth–clearly the leader–had a definite look of intelligence in his eyes. That could be good, or bad, depending on just _how_ smart he was.

"What d'you want?" Kaylee demanded in a voice that shook only slightly.

The leader of the little group ignored her, instead nodding to two of his goons. They moved forward to clamp hands onto the Doctor's shoulders and haul him upright. So much for leaping up to catch them off guard. He allowed himself to dangle limply, still producing magnificent wheezes.

The man in charge–he needed a name, call him _Bob_, then–grasped the Doctor's aching jaw in one hand and forced his head up. "Where is it?"

The Doctor panted, then gave it up as too melodramatic. Acting hadn't really been his thing for a number of lives now. "What?" he asked brightly.

The fingers tightened painfully. "You have property that does not belong to you. Where is it?"

"Well, some specifics would be nice, y'know. I mean, I'm not exactly in the _habit_ of wandering off with other people's property, not these days anyway, and even when I _did_ it was always for a reason–awk!" The hand gripping his face had adjusted slightly to tighten around his throat.

"Search him," Bob ordered, and the extra muscle came forward to begin rifling through the Doctor's pockets.

Oh dear. This was a scenario he'd been through many, many times before, and he knew from experience that it could take literally _hours_ to empty his pockets, depending on the inner dimensions' current mood. He'd pulled out steaming teapots before, for pity's sake. And while it had on occasion been useful in delaying things, it also often resulted in him being hit with large, blunt objects as his interrogators became irritated. "You wouldn't, by chance," he croaked, "be looking for a little silvery metal thing, would you?"

The designated searcher stopped instantly, and turned a curiously blank face toward his leader. _Hang on, this is weird_. The Doctor rolled his eyes around for a look at the face of one of the men holding his arms. That one was blank as well, and not the blank non-expression of the trained thug, but the blank of..._mind control?_ _What the hell...?_

"Give it to me," ordered Bob, and the Doctor, studying his face, realized that the spark of intelligence in his eyes was not his own, that it was that of something _else_ sitting behind his eyes and maneuvering him like a puppet. _This is not good, not good at all._ His mind raced, rifling through his memory, searching for anything he might have encountered in the last thousand years that went in for this sort of thing. There weren't many races left out there with that kind of psychic ability and anyway, certainly not from _this_ timeline. It might be caused by some sort of machine. That was a hopeful thought, since machines were easy enough to thwart...

"Give it to me," repeated the man, and his hand tightened once more.

"Can't," rasped the Doctor. "Need a hand free, for that."

Bob scowled, though the expression had a curious quality to it. Like a delayed signal, thought the Doctor. Finally the man nodded slightly, and the iron grip on one of the Doctor's arms relaxed.

He reached into his pocket, and hesitated. Choices, choices–and risks and consequences too. If it was a machine causing this, a burst from the sonic screwdriver _might_ interrupt the signal, give he and the girls time to escape in the confusion.

"Do not," said Bob, and in a single swift movement had reached out and grabbed hold of Kaylee, fingers digging into her arms. She still looked terrified, but the Doctor could see anger beginning to crowd it out.

Not a machine, then. Machines were really only good at reaction, and rubbish at spur of the moment anticipation. Damn. That meant there was something _living_ behind all this, and that made things distressingly unpredictable. His fingers left the cylinder of the screwdriver and closed around the metal disc. _I don't think handing this over is a good idea. I'm getting definite 'no witnesses' vibes off this fellow._

His eyes drifted past Bob and Kaylee, met River's dark eyes. Then, before Bob–or rather, the mind _controlling_ Bob–could notice any communication, the Doctor slowly withdrew his hand and held up the psychic tag between two fingers. "Is this what you're looking for?"

Even as one of the men flanking him reached for it, the Doctor tossed it up, high into the air. End over end it tumbled, flashing in the morning sunlight. _Human eyes, c'mon, they're still __**human**__ eyes..._ And the gazes of Bob and his three men traveled upwards, following the trajectory of the little metal disc as up and up it went...


	17. Chapter 17: A Little Less Trust

**Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews! I do like hearing from folks. :) Oh, and for any who might have forgotten due to my long absence or somehow are hearing the wrong voice in their heads...this is Ten in this story, not Nine. I have plans for Nine, but in places other than the Firefly 'verse. :D**

**Amusing-but-Scary Doctor Quote of the Day: "Let's see, you have two of us: the responsible one and the loopy one. That leaves me. Which one d'you think I am? _I'm the nasty one_." --The Eighth Doctor, "Caerdroia" (Bit of background here: the Doctor had been split into, basically, three copies. Each was pretty much a facet of his personality. One was easily distracted and more than a little like a kid in a toy store, one was logical and sensible, and the third...well, let's just say that when the villain protested that the Doctor couldn't _possibly_ do him deliberate harm, because it wasn't his nature, the third laughed in his face and told him there was a _reason_ the other two kept him under close watch...)**

**Straight-up-Amusing Doctor Quote: "What's a horse doing on a spaceship?" ****"Mickey, what's pre-revolutionary France doing on a spaceship? Get a little perspective." --10th Doctor and Mickey, "The Girl in the Fireplace"**

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* * *

  
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"Sometimes, in the night I feel it

Near as my next breath

And yet, untouchable

Silently the past comes stealing

Like the taste of some forbidden sweet..."

–Dan Fogelberg, "Ghosts"

River _flowed_. There seemed hardly intervening steps from lying prone on the park bench to upright and moving fast; one minute she was still, the next a blur of grace and motion. River fisted one hand into Bob's hair, pulling his head back and using her weight to bear him downwards. With little leverage to control his suddenly bending spine, he was forced to let go of Kaylee to turn and deal with his attacker. He sacrificed some hair and managed to face River, only to receive a kick in his face for his troubles. She let go of him and glided back, as the other thugs, now ignoring the Doctor and Kaylee as non-threats, closed in.

The Doctor dove forward, hand outstretched to catch the psychic tag as it fell. His fingers closed over it even as his other hand grabbed Kaylee by the collar of her shirt and dragged her back, out of the way of the abruptly furious melee. She stumbled against him, swearing in Chinese. "Sorry," he said in her ear, steadying her. "I think maybe we should leave River to it."

There was no doubt the slight girl was holding her own. More than holding it, in fact; the Doctor could not, offhand, recall ever seeing such efficient, ruthless, and above all graceful violence. Even Leela had never quite achieved this level of ease.

"Shouldn't we do something?" asked Kaylee anxiously.

"Working on it." He upended the screwdriver over the tag in his palm and thumbed up the settings. "Which one, which one," he muttered. "C'mon, _c'mon_..."

Despite the beating River was handing them, the thugs were not going down. River ducked and whirled, spun and danced and leapt between them, but they were not falling. The Doctor strongly suspected that River might be pulling her punches, so as not to actually _kill_ them, but even so the thugs were proving mightily resilient.

"Th-they should be hittin' the dirt," Kaylee cried. "This ain't right, we gotta _do_ somethin'! _Doctor!_"

"Almost got it..."

A sonic screwdriver, even one as heavily tinkered with as his, would not do much against actual psionic energy. But these tags were, in their most basic components, essentially machines. And as he'd told the woman back on Persephone, the screwdriver could play merry hell with complicated bits of machinery. If he could just work out the frequency...and, of course, provided the four men had similar tags to the Reaver's, then they might just be in business.

The tag buzzed in his palm. "_Yes!_" He thumbed up the power on the screwdriver and pointed it at the tangled knot of River and thugs. The whine was earsplitting, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Kaylee hastily clap her hands over her ears. The effect upon the thugs was rather more dramatic. Nearly as one they dropped writhing to the torn-up grass. "How's that, Kaylee?" he asked happily. "They hitting the dirt well enough for you now?"

She stared, flabbergasted. He _so_ loved being brilliant. No time to gloat, though. He wrapped the tag in his handkerchief, shoved it back into his pocket, and moved forward to the moaning Bob. Squatting down beside him, he pulled aside the prone man's shirt collar, fingers probing. "There has to be...aha! Thought so." He pulled away a tag very similar to the one in his pocket, wincing a little as tiny filaments slid out of the man's neck, leaving minute trails of blood. He hoped he wasn't doing any neurological damage, yanking it out like this.

"What is that?" asked Kaylee, edging close enough to see.

"Collars," said River darkly.

"Something like that," the Doctor agreed. "Check the others, will you?" He thumbed another setting on the screwdriver and held it over the new tag. "Let's just disable these nasty little toys." He took each tag in turn as it was handed to him, and used the screwdriver on them. It might have been easier to simply break the things in half, but it was such an inelegant solution–and anyway, he wanted a closer look at them in the TARDIS lab.

The man nicknamed Bob groaned again, his eyelids fluttering. The Doctor peeled back first one, then the other, to check his eyes. "Bit concussed," he observed, shooting a stern look at River from under his eyelashes. She ignored him.

Bob's eyes opened and tried to focus blearily on the Doctor's face. "Wh-what...?"

"How're you feeling, old chum?" the Doctor asked merrily. The other man winced, and he modified his tone somewhat. "Bit of a headache?" He helped the man into a semi-sitting position. "What's your name?"

"Nng...Vegas. Alonzo Vegas."

The Doctor's mouth stretched into a broad grin. "Alonzo? Is it really? That's _brilliant_!" Catching the look on the poor man's face, he swallowed any other remarks he might have made regarding the man's name. _Not the time for French puns. I can learn, yes?_ "Ah...nevermind. D'you think you're all right?"

"Feel like I've been beaten," said Alonzo, wincing as his fingers probed.

The Doctor glanced at River again and said, "Ah, well, some nasty blokes set on you. We, uh, scared them off. Doesn't seem to be too much damage done. What's the last thing you remember?"

Alonzo blinked. "I...I was coming out of an interview. Got the job, actually, and just picked up my ident badge." He glanced over at the other three men, still prone and only semi-conscious. "Wh-who are they?"

"Job? With whom?"

"Renier Enterprises. I don't suppose you've got any painkillers on you? My head aches like a _jien huo_ after New Year's."

"That wouldn't be _Carson _Renier, would it?"

"Yeah," replied Alonzo, growing irritable. "What's it matter?" He glared suspiciously at the Doctor, then the two girls. "Just who are you people, anyway? And who the hell are those guys?" He gestured again at the other three men.

The Doctor stood up, hauling Alonzo up with him and making a show of dusting him off. "Doesn't matter. Call us, oh, good Samaritans if you like. Now, I think perhaps you'd best take yourself off home for a nice cuppa and some pain pills. Allons-y, Alonzo!" He gave the man a little shove. Alonzo, overwhelmed by sudden, pseudo-British briskness and a bad French pun, obeyed. The Doctor allowed him to limp a few steps off and added, "Oh, and Alonzo?"

The man paused. "What?"

"Take my advice–don't accept that job with Renier Enterprises."

"What? Why not?"

"Just...don't. If things go as they usually do when I–well, let's just say that their stock options and employee benefits may not be worth much shortly. Now, off with you! Shoo!"

When he had gone–still looking deeply suspicious–Kaylee said, "What did you mean, Doc, about Renier?"

The Doctor pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped up the new tags in it. "Someone's producing these little horrors, and I'd lay a quid that Mr. Alonzo Vegas didn't get one slapped on him by a side-alley thug." He glanced at the three other men, beginning to groan and stir, and amended, "Well, maybe by _those_ side-alley thugs, but I imagine they were operating under orders, so to speak."

"And Carson Renier is the fella who's got the alien we're after," Kaylee finished, her eyes narrowing. "You think there's something between the two of 'em? But...why?"

"'Why' is a very broad question, Kaylee, luv. Why do I think there's a connection between Renier and these tags? Because these tags were almost certainly produced with technology alien to these parts. Renier is the fellow who has an alien. Ergo, the connection is likely. Why are they doing this?" The Doctor shook his head. "Can't give you a definite answer to that one, but I expect it's pretty much the usual: power, control, and/or world domination. Villains are a sadly unimaginative lot. It's always the same old routine. Just once, it'd be lovely to run into a bad guy who just wants...I dunno...the perfect cup of tea or something." He sighed. "I suppose he wouldn't be villain, then. Ah, well." He brightened. "Now, I think it's time we went and had a closer look at Renier Enterprises. Shall we go?"

Kaylee folded her arms. "Not without talkin' to the cap'n we ain't. And what, you plannin' just to walk right in there or somethin'?"

"Or something," the Doctor agreed. He held up Alonzo's wallet, which he had neatly picked from the man's pocket while helping him up earlier.

Kaylee stared. "You _stole_ that from him?"

"Obviously. I may not be able to play spoons anymore, but by heaven I'm still a good pickpocket." He flipped open the wallet and pulled out a slim ident card with _Renier Enterprises, LTD_ and Alonzo's name printed on it. "I'm _so_ clever sometimes."

River glided up next to him and eyed the card narrowly. "It's dirty," she remarked.

"Possibly," agreed the Doctor. "But I have a handy cleaner back on _Serenity_ that should take care of any inconvenient tracers or DNA embedding." He caught Kaylee's eye. "Which, of course, entails stopping to have a chat with Mal, naturally. I wouldn't _dream_ of doing anything without the captain's permission," he added, insincerely.

***

Mal paced the length of his cabin–exactly three and a half strides, if he made sure to go around the ladder–one hand fisted in his hair, the other tugging at a suspender. Three Hills gnawed at him like a dog with a bone, but he wasn't any closer to figurin' a solution than he had been when he started pacing over an hour ago. He was used to feeling like things were out of his control, that the whole gorram 'verse had him at a disadvantage–but this...There was something big here, he was sure of it. Something he'd only seen the tracks of, but not the form. And he was only too aware that a footprint did _not_ look like a boot. Theories and ideas multiplied like bunnies, most of them with the Alliance tagged as VILLAIN in great big letters. And yet, and yet...Pieces didn't fit. He didn't have enough information, that was the _yi dwei da buen chuo roh_ of a problem. They _knew_ next to nothing about what was really going on here. Which was, he supposed, not _unusual_ for he and his, but it went nowhere toward giving them even an _option_, let alone a solution.

_This feels like too many of those gorram missions during the War, when the Brass wouldn't tell us grunts what the hell was goin' on, but still expected us to pull a miracle outta our collective ass._

He had to do something. Pacing his little bunk like a cat with a knot in its tail was doing nothing but drive him crazy. He dearly wanted to hit something. Or someone. Preferably someone annoying, but Jayne hadn't got back yet and he wasn't sure he could come up with a good justification for hitting Simon, especially not when the boy was being, for him, supportive. Probably he should go talk with Zoe and Inara, in the hope that three of them could come up with something–but it still wouldn't magically produce more intel. All they'd manage was an endless round of "What do we do?"

With a low growl of fury and frustration, Mal climbed up the ladder and out his cabin door. It was a design flaw, he felt, that the doors on the crew quarters weren't really made for slamming, being run on hydraulics and, therefore, capable only of hissing closed.

The captain was upset. In Mal's book of Captain's Rights, he ought to be able to spread it around and make everyone else equally unhappy. Except for Zoe and Inara, with Zoe being off limits just now and Inara...a while back he might have gone and picked a fight with her to let off steam, but lately it just didn't seem...Hell, he'd no idea what was going on there. Well, no, that wasn't exactly true, but he didn't dare even _think_ too hard about it. That way lay pain, and he had enough of that going on in his life, thank you _so_ much.

Mal realized he'd kept moving, that his feet, moving without any particular instructions from his brain, had taken him to _Serenity's_ hold. He found himself standing in front of the weird blue box the Doctor had brought on board.

_Police Public Call Box._ And there was a smaller sign, on the door, instructing the reader to use the telephone to summon police in case of an emergency. Telephone? That was an Earth-That-Was thing, if he remembered right, bit like the comms they used now. He vaguely recalled seeing one somewhere, some item in an artifact collection or a museum somewhere. His ma had dragged him to one on Shadow once, though he didn't recall it having anything particularly interesting.

Well, the Doctor had mentioned it was a family heirloom, so probably it was an Earth-That-Was artifact, and therefore extremely valuable. Mal distracted himself for a few moments toying with the idea of waving Badger and offering to sell him a priceless antique instead of an alien...He sighed, a little wistfully. Then he frowned.

Why hadn't he thought of this before? Not that he was seriously considering doing any such thing–after all, the man was a paying passenger–but surely _Jayne_ at least would have suggested it by now. Anyone could see the thing was an Earth artifact. Mal's frown deepened. In fact, no one had even really _mentioned_ the thing since it was brought on board. Almost as though it...

Wasn't there.

Mal blinked, and focused on the blue box again. No, it was definitely _there_, he could see it–but even as he considered this he found his eyes wandering past it once again. Like the box itself was sidling out of his line of sight. Which was downright crazy, that's what it was...Shaking his head, as if that might stop his eyes playing tricks with his brains, Mal reached out to touch the thing. Maybe physical contact would help. His fingers brushed a blue panel, and he jerked his hand back. What the hell–? He reached out, this time flattening his palm on the thing, the painted wood slick-rough beneath his hand.

_It's...__**warm**_**.**

And, even weirder, it seemed to hum slightly, a faint vibration he could feel in his bones. A steady, almost rhythmic pulse..._Like a heartbeat. Like it's...alive._

He yanked his hand back again, his own heart racing a little. What was this? This was crazy-thinking. It was just a wood box, wasn't it? And wood boxes weren't supposed to–to _hum_, were they? Okay, so he didn't know much about Earth-That-Was artifacts, but surely this wasn't _normal_.

Footsteps on the boarding ramp brought him around with a start. Kaylee, River, and the Doctor, all three dusty and rather disheveled looking. Mal's hand slid toward his gun as he took in Kaylee's pale face and the frightened look in her eyes, the grim inscrutability of River's features. The Doctor's head was lowered, apparently deep in thought, his expression unreadable.

"Kaylee," said Mal. "What's up?"

He watched her make a visible effort to compose herself, to push away the lingering fear haunting her pretty face. "Cap'n, I–we–" She broke off, tugging at her coveralls with hands she tried not to let shake.

The Doctor interrupted, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Someone seems to be very interested in our doings on Three Hills," he said in a low voice. His eyes narrowed at Mal. "You don't seem surprised."

The other thruster had fired; Mal just hadn't expected it to be quite so _quick_. He blew out a breath. "Not so much," he agreed. He glanced at Kaylee and hesitated. Fighting always upset his mechanic something terrible, and he wasn't sure dropping the news about Three Hills' fate on her right at this moment was such a great idea.

But no. That was an insult to Kaylee's courage, and strength. Maybe she hated combat and brawling, and maybe she responded to it afterwards with tears, but that didn't make her weak, just gentle-hearted. In her own way, she was as strong as anyone else on his crew, and she deserved nothing but truth from him.

"Just after y'all left, we got a wave from Three Hills," he said. "Sent 'bout a day after we broke atmo." He watched Kaylee frown some, then saw her eyes grow large with horror as her imagination presented possibilities.

"It wasn't good news, I take it," said the Doctor.

Mal shook his head, and watched the other man's hand tighten on Kaylee's shoulder as her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, Mal," she breathed. "It's not–"

"Three Hills got hit by Reavers. Far as we can tell, no one survived."

River's deep eyes, Mal noted, were not at all surprised. He half expected her to say something typically River-cryptic, but instead she walked over to Kaylee, slipped an arm around the other young woman's shoulders, and steered her away. Kaylee went without protest, her face numb and shocked. River led her off toward her own quarters, making soft comforting noises as they went. It was an unexpectedly normal gesture from River, and Mal found himself strangely touched by it.

And it left him alone with the Doctor. He fixed the other man with a stern eye. "You don't seem too surprised."

The Doctor sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "Not terribly," he admitted. "The fellows who, ah, jumped us at the carnival had a definite 'no-witness' aura about them." He turned his head away, but not before Mal had spotted the flash of emotion–rage? sorrow?–in his dark eyes. "You're certain no one survived at Three Hills?"

"Pretty near." Mal cocked his head to the side, and heard the Doctor hiss something under his breath he didn't catch. It might have been profanity, but it wasn't in any language _he_ recognized. "What I find mighty interestin' is the fact that we get a wave just about the same time someone comes lookin' for _you_ about Three Hills. How is it they caught on so fast? It ain't like we advertised to anyone we were headin' for Paquin."

The Doctor ignored this, apparently lost in rapt contemplation of a nearby bulkhead. "Captain Reynolds," he said at last, "I think it's time we had a little chat."

"Oh, ya think?"

That piercing gaze swept back to him. "But not about me," he said firmly. "Not just yet. Let us instead discuss the Reavers."

Mal folded his arms and glared.

The Doctor ignored this as well. "I want you to tell me about them."

This startled Mal out of his glare. "What? What do you–"

"Let us pretend," interrupted the Doctor, waving a hand, "just for a moment, that I know absolutely nothing about Reavers. Let's say I've spent the last hundred years living in a box, and only just came out. I want you to tell me about the Reavers. Not the campfire tales and rumors and gossip I've seen on the Cortex, not the garbled reports of certain...incidents. _I_ want to know what _you_ know of these creatures."

"Why?"

"Because I asked you to tell me." There was an edge in that accented voice now, an edge Mal recognized only too well. It wasn't a request, it was an order.

Mal wanted to shout at the man, to demand that he stop playing these gorram games. That he stop acting like _he_ was in ruttin' command. But it was a reasonable enough question, and there was an unspoken plea in the other man's eyes that belied the steely tone of command and put a temporary leash on Mal's anger. He sighed again. "Fine." He gestured toward a crate, and the Doctor–with a magnificently insincere show of obedience–sat down and gazed at him attentively.

"You ever hear of a world called Miranda?" he asked.

"Living ina box, remember?"

"Yeah, fine." Mal's hands fisted around his suspenders. "Don't matter much–most folk, if you ask 'em, will say they ain't ever heard of the place in their lives.

"The Alliance finished the terraforming project on Miranda 'bout fifteen years ago. Far as I can tell, it was somethin' of a pet project, a border planet they'd gone outta their way to make like a Core planet: cities, industries, and such, nearly all set up and just waitin' for people to come in and make 'em run smooth. Bit of a different approach from the usual settin' of folk down with the bare supplies and lettin' them scrape by as best they can.

"They sent out adverts, callin' for settlers to come to Miranda. I suppose it was one helluva campaign, 'cause a whole lot of folks went. I don't recall it my own self, but I was a dumb eighteen year old too busy tryin' to convince my ma I was a real grownup.

"Things must have gone smooth for a couple of years. When–when we saw Miranda, it was pretty clear the cities had filled up but good and things had been moving right along. But that wasn't all there was to it.

"You see, Miranda was more than some poster-world for the Alliance's new plans to bring civilization to the border worlds. Some _feh feh pi goh_–or several, more likely–had decided that they could make people _better._" Mal's mouth twisted on the words. "See, Miranda was terraformed enough to settle, but it still ran air processors to boost the atmo. And Alliance brass, in their infinite _wisdom_, added a little somethin' extra to 'em. Called it Pax–some chemical cocktail of paxilon hydrochlorate–" He nodded as the Doctor gave a small start of recognition. "The idea was to make the folk on Miranda less 'aggressive.' Make 'em peaceful, easier to control. Only it didn't quite work out the way they planned.

"There were thirty million people on Miranda. And nearly all of 'em became peaceful, oh yeah. They stopped fightin'. Then they stopped moving, eating, and breathing. Nearly thirty million people just lay down and died. Peaceful-like." Mal realized his voice was getting louder, and he paused, fighting down the old fury. The images of Miranda, corpses everywhere, burned in his memory. "But some of 'em didn't lay down and die. Some of them...had a different reaction. Instead of becoming peaceful, they became so aggressive they stopped being human."

"Reavers," breathed the Doctor.

"The space around Miranda is filled with 'em. They just hang there, and send out raiding parties. Make other Reavers by catching folk and forcing them to watch what they do to their friends and family. No reason, no rhyme. Just hate and fury. Maybe because they remember what happened on Miranda, maybe because they watched those they loved just give up and die, poisoned by the air they breathed. Maybe because they can't feel any other way. I don't know. Don't much care, to be truthsome. Whatever they once were, they ain't human now.

"And the Alliance _knew_. They knew what had happened, and they covered it up. It was easy enough. By the time things on Miranda went to hell, the war had already started, and folk all over this 'verse were too busy fightin' to pay much attention to one out-of-the-way planet. There were vague reports at first of a terraforming incident, so sorry, terrible tragedy, blah blah. Thinkin' about it now, I vaguely recall hearing some such thing, but by then I'd signed up with the Independents and was too busy tryin' not to get my ass blown off. And in the chaos of war, it was easy to make Miranda disappear. Wiped out of all the records, never mentioned again. I don't know how many folk on Miranda had family off-planet, but I imagine that if you were to go digging, you'd find that nearly all of 'em had disappeared or been 'killed in the war.'" Mal dragged a hand over his face. "And no one would have remembered, save for the fact that one little girl saw into the brains of those with the blood of Miranda on their hands. The secret burned her right up, but she survived, and escaped, and came onto my ship."

"River Tam," the Doctor whispered.

"Yeah." Mal propped his shoulders against a stack of boxes. "So there's your story, Doc. Reavers in a nutshell."

There was a long silence. The Doctor got to his feet, turned away from Mal, propping his hands on a tall crate, head bowed and frame hunched. Mal couldn't see the other man's face, but from the rigid set of the shoulders beneath the coat, he figured they weren't pleasant thoughts running through the man's head. He wondered if he ought to say something more, but held his tongue instead, waiting.

"Humans," the Doctor said finally, in a low, grating growl. Mal saw his hands clench on top of the crate. "You never change." He whipped around to face the captain again, his long coat flaring. Mal nearly recoiled at the naked fury on the other man's face, but caught himself just in time. All the same, there was an almost inhuman scope to the rage written in every line of the Doctor's face and body that set Mal's spine crawling. His lips were drawn back in a snarl over clenched teeth, brown eyes blazing. "It's always the same! Always thinking that you can treat evil like–like a disease, or some quirk of the DNA, to be fixed with a bit of genetic manipulation. Like there's some magic bullet or cure for it, to make everything perfect. As if evil weren't a deliberate choice, a path walked with open eyes. _It never changes._"

Mal found he had his hand on his gun, his back pressed hard against the boxes. Anger of his own chased away some of the strange fear. "Ain't exactly disagreein' with you, Doc," he snapped. "I lost two of my crew and a whole lotta blood for standin' up and doin' somethin' about it. So don't you go blaming _me_." And then, as his brain caught up with the rest of him, he added, "And what d'you mean, '_humans_'? You excludin' yourself from the rest of the race here?"

The anger drained from the Doctor's face. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. You aren't to blame. It's just..." He looked away again, a grim and old sadness settling over his face in place of rage. "I've seen it so many times," he whispered, so quietly Mal had to strain to catch the words. "And I'm _tired_ of it."

"It is somethin' of a fundamental flaw in human nature," Mal agreed. "Thinkin' you can force folks to behave."

The Doctor smiled a little, a spark of humor glittering in his eye. "I would lay odds that you, Captain Reynolds, are the sort that prefers to _mis_behave." He lifted his chin. "Well, so am I. Which brings us to why I asked you about Reavers."

"This got somethin' to do with the fellows who jumped you earlier?"

The other man nodded. "They were interested in the tags. And, even more intriguing, all four of them were being _controlled_ by tags very similar to the ones we found on Three Hills."

"_What?_"

"My thoughts exactly. Makes the imagination conjure up all sorts of unpleasant ideas, doesn't it?"

"Real unpleasant," Mal grunted. "Especially seein' as Zeke said the Reavers that attacked them were actin' like they were under some kinda orders. Which, so far as anyone has ever been able to tell, is one thing Reavers _don't_ do."

The Doctor's eyebrows drew together. "Under orders?"

"Still ain't clear on what he meant by that, but I got no reason to disbelieve him." Mal rubbed his arms, suddenly feeling chilled. "Zeke was a soldier, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. He would have seen the difference. The idea of Reavers actin' in a disciplined fashion, even while still _actin'_ like Reavers...That's the sorta thoughts to keep me up nights. Those three in the woods were bad enough, but if Zeke was right, then there's a whole gorram army out there."

"And it's worse than that, if non-Reavers are being controlled as well." The Doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you think it's the Alliance?"

Mal shrugged. "Seems probable. Why, what's your theory?"

"Oh...I've got several dozen, really. Well, all right, maybe not quite _that_ many..." The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, tugged at his collar. "In fact, it's really just one, but it's a bit vague."

"Yeah? And what is it?"

The Doctor flashed that goofy smile that made Mal seriously doubt the other man's sanity. "Aliens."

Mal gave him a long, level look.

"I know. 'No such thing.' Funny thing is, though, Captain–can you _really_ insist that you know everything there is to know about this universe?"

"Maybe not. But I ain't ever seen any aliens."

"You sure about that?" The Doctor's grin widened. "Anyway, it's a big universe, and this is only a few small systems in it."

"Maybe," Mal conceded. "Though I'd expected we'd a' seen some by this point."

"Fair point. I wonder why you haven't." The Doctor's smile faded, and his eyes went somewhere far off in thought.

"So you think it's aliens."

"Well...yes. As in, someone Not From Around Here. It usually is," he added in a mutter.

"And you believe this...why?"

"Because of the tags. Like I said in the woods, Captain, that's not technology you lot should have."

"How d'you know? You privy to all the government's secret projects or somethin'?"

The Doctor waved this away. "Doesn't matter. Like I said, it's only a theory." He shoved both hands into his trouser pockets, his eyes sliding away from Mal's once again. "This just doesn't make _sense_," he said under his breath. "I'm not used to running about blind like this. I thought I'd been everywhere by this point...I wonder if it's another side effect of the war, shifting the web out of place..."

And we're off into reader crazy-talk, thought Mal. "Doctor," he said, then had to repeat himself as the man continued mumbling to himself.

The Doctor blinked at him. "Sorry, went off a bit there."

"Did you have any thought in your head about what might happen to Three Hills? That someone might maybe be lookin' to cover their tracks?"

"Do you think I did?"

Evasion. Mal felt a surge of anger, and his fists clenched.

"Mal!"

He turned to see Jayne pelting up the ramp. The big merc's face was an unaccustomed mask of worry and upset. "Jayne?"

Jayne came to a halt a few feet away, panting a bit. He'd obviously been moving fast from wherever he'd been. "Zoe called me up on the comm. Is it true, what happened?"

"Yeah."

Jayne's face hardened. "Ain't right," he growled. "An' it's our fault, ain't it?" There was an unexpected sorrow in the man's eyes. Well, maybe not entirely unexpected; since Miranda, Mal had discovered that Jayne had the rudiments of a moral sense. It was all manner of shocking.

"It's someone's fault," said Mal, and looked at the Doctor. "And I aim to find out just whose."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Captain," said the Doctor gravely. "And I've got an idea how we might go about discovering it."

And Mal never realized, in the wake of their conversation, that the Doctor's strange box had slid its way out of his head once more.


	18. Chapter 18: Making Plans

**Author's Note: Hooray! I have internet at my house again. :D Again, my thanks to all of you who so kindly reviewed! I really love 'em. **

**Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day: "Please, when Torchwood comes to write my complete history, _please _don't say I traveled through time and space with her mother. " --Ten, "Army of Ghosts"**

** Amusing Firefly Quote of the Day: "Right. I'm very sorry if she tipped off anyone about your cunningly concealed herd of cows." --Simon, "Safe"**

* * *

"Remember the day  
When I first set my eyes on you and  
You said the same  
Seemed like everything was right for us  
Endless nights of loving  
All my doubts and fears went away  
So tell me what went wrong  
Now I need you..."  
–Sarah Brightman, "Ship of Fools"

Zoe settled back in the chair, suppressing a weary sigh. Her ankles ached. Funny, that. Her feet had hurt plenty of times–all the running they did, their line of work, it was expected–but she couldn't recall her _ankles_ ever hurting. They swelled up some, too, when she'd been too long on her feet. It was such a little thing, taken alongside the rest of the changes her body had undergone the past almost-six months, but for some reason it really bothered her.

Life woke in her belly, roiling and kicking. She rubbed her hand over the swell, murmuring soft, soothing words, fighting against the lump in her throat. _Wash, you should be here, gorramit. Who's gonna hold my hand when the time comes? Mal'd offer, but it ain't his job, shouldn't have to be. I'm scared, and Zoe Alleyne Washburn is __**never**__ scared. It ain't fair._

And that was the worst of it. She missed him–so much–and she ached for his goofy smile and the warmth of his arms around her. And she was angry, so angry, that he'd left her to bear this alone. She was strong enough–she'd always been strong enough–but, gorramit, some days she was _sick_ and _tired_ of having to be strong enough. He was supposed to be here to run and fetch for her, to get her the silly foodstuffs she craved, to put up with her grousing about it being all his fault and getting misty-eyed with her over what they'd created between them. Instead she had to soldier on like always and pretend she was as stoic as ever, for her own sake as much as everyone else's. And she _hated_ it. For the first time, she _hated_ being the perfect soldier. And she was angry at Wash, and angry at Mal for putting her husband in a position to die, and furious with herself for letting it happen. Angry at feeling vulnerable now that he was gone, when she'd never been vulnerable in her life. Angry at being scared. And now, with Three Hills, there was all kinds of new things to be scared about, in addition to the usual...

Someone knocked softly on the doorframe, and Zoe looked up to see the Doctor, looking hesitant. It didn't strike her as an expression that often graced his face. "Doc. Arrivin' early for the meetin'?"

He gestured to the otherwise empty dining room. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Captain's rounding up everyone else," she said, sidestepping the question. He _was_ disturbing her–she _still _couldn't figure him out–but considering the unhappy whirlpool her solitary thoughts were locking into, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. "He told me what happened at the carnival. I'm glad you and the girls are all right."

"Yes. Bit of a disturbance, that. I must say, River's, ah, talents are remarkable." He offered her a tentative smile, and sank into a chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a whale," said Zoe honestly. He didn't want to discuss the carnival, she realized. Or Three Hills. Well, neither did she, really. Seemed fair enough; they'd all have to hash it over and over again soon enough. "But I understand that's normal. Or so Simon says."

"He's a gifted doctor."

"He's a gifted surgeon," she corrected. "But I ain't decided yet if he's a gifted baby doctor. Far as I know, he's only ever delivered one baby." She thought about that a moment, and added, "Though since he did it in the middle of a god-awful firefight, I suppose that's somethin'. Just seems t'me that men get more fussed than they ought, when babies are involved."

"Mm." The Doctor's dark eyes grew blurred, looking at something far in the past. "I suppose it's true enough, that the male half of the species gets more flapped than the female over childbirth. Probably because they can't do it themselves. I remember when my–" He stopped abruptly, and swallowed hard. The blur in his eyes took on a sheen of something Zoe thought looked like pain. Then he blinked, and the moment was past. "Still," he said in a forced-bright tone, "I'm sure he–and all the other menfolk on this boat–will do just swimmingly when the time comes." His eyes locked onto hers. "And so will you," he added firmly.

Zoe's fingers tightened over her belly. "I expect so," she said coolly, unwilling to let him see her worry. She had an uneasiness in her that said it was no good, that he'd already read her like a gorram book. That it was why he'd said those reassuring, confident, disturbing words. Mal had mentioned the man was almost surely a reader.

They were saved an awkward silence by Mal's arrival. Behind him followed the rest of the crew: Kaylee quiet and subdued, her arm around Inara's waist for comfort; Jayne and Simon arguing in low voices over something; River entering last of all, as silent and enigmatic as ever. Zoe found herself relaxing some. Her family–the survivors, at least–in one place, all safe and sound. She obsessed over it, these days, in the privacy of her own head, like she never had before. She found herself worried, upset even, when she didn't have them in her sight. Even Jayne, and that was amusing in a not-very kind of manner. Maybe it was part of the pregnancy; maybe it was the scars of Miranda, but if she could keep all of them safe aboard _Serenity_ in some forgotten corner of the black she'd be happy as could be. This wasn't practical, soldier-to-the-bone Zoe; this was a new Zoe, one she hadn't gotten to know very well yet. This was a Zoe who found herself considering not just the immediate future, but a future that lay years off yet, a future in which she was responsible for the shaping and molding of a human soul...

Also a Zoe who did not focus as much as she ought on immediate things. Mal was talking already; filling those who hadn't been there in on what had happened to the girls and the Doctor earlier. Three Hills.

"–near as I can conjure a theory, what happened on Three Hills has got 'big secret science project' written all over it. Maybe it was a coincidence, Reavers destroyin' the settlements right after we killed those Reavers in the woods, but I don't think so."

"This to do with Miranda?" asked Jayne.

"Got no idea," admitted Mal. "Maybe, maybe not. Got to do with the Reavers and these days it seems like Reavers are our own personal boogeyman to deal with. Whatever it is, us helpin' Zeke out has sunk us neck deep in it. We already got folk after us for what we know–which ain't much, just now–and I ain't gonna hope they'll just get bored and go away." Mal sighed. "The job is out the airlock for the moment. If we got people seriously hunting us, then tryin' to heist some gorram fake alien for Badger is right down at the bottom of my priority list."

Jayne's face twisted up. Zoe expected him to protest, as he always did when Mal's sense of honor got in the way of their profit, but to her mild surprise he just let out a sharp huff and didn't argue at all. "Badger ain't gonna like it," was all he said.

"Fact is," Mal continued, "we gotta find out what's goin' on, and fast. Someone out there thinks we know somethin' we don't, and if we got any hope of gettin' out of this, we need to find what it is we don't know." He hesitated, perhaps realizing he'd gotten more than a bit tangled up in that last sentence.

"We may not have much time," put in the Doctor. "In my experience, the types who like to play these sorts of nasty games very much dislike having others find out about it. The speed of what happened on Three Hills–and the incident at the carnival–is an indication of just how fast they can really move."

Jayne scowled at the Doctor. "How'd they find you anyhow?"

"The large flashing sign over my head that reads 'meddler,'" came the bland reply. Then, as confusion wrinkled the big man's forehead, the Doctor added, "There seems to have been some kind of psychic tracer on the tag we picked up. Don't worry, I disabled it. I want a closer study of the things at some point, but in the meantime, I think our best hope of finding information lies in the offices of Renier Enterprises."

"Hang on," said Zoe, shifting her weight. "Why Renier?"

"Oh, well...the men who jumped us at the carnival earlier were from Renier's company. Didn't I mention that?" The Doctor hunched his shoulders a little under her glare. "Sorry. Yes. It seems that the mysterious Mister Renier, he of the alien of dubious provenance, has his fingers in this particular pie."

"The Doc took an ident card off one of the men," Kaylee said. "Should get us through the door, at least."

"The door, maybe," said Mal skeptically. "But I doubt it'll do much about real live folks. Near as I can figure, folks in offices as big and important as Renier's are gonna be suspicious.

"Not exactly," said the Doctor. "In my experience, most folk don't question you if you act like you know where you're going and you belong there. I make a notable exception of the military in this instance, of course."

"Renier is one of the biggest entertainment names on this planet," Mal retorted. "Man himself might be powerful mysterious, but he's still important. I can't see folk workin' in his main offices just _ignoring_ nosy people."

"You might be surprised. People in a corporate setting tend to be even less interested in their surroundings than anyone else. Probably because they're bored to death. But even if we _do_ encounter a particularly bright and alert go-getter, I wouldn't worry about it," the Doctor said cheerily. "I've got just the thing." And with a stage magician might envy, the Doctor produced a battered leather wallet–apparently out of thin air–and held it up triumphantly.

Jayne frowned. "What's that?" he demanded.

By way of answer, the Doctor tossed him the wallet. Jayne caught it easily and flipped it open. His frown deepened with bewilderment.

"'Doctor John Smith, monkey keeper,'" he read. Jayne looked up. "How the hell does somethin' that says 'monkey keeper' get us into a high security office building?"

"Is that what it says?" asked the Doctor, lifting his eyebrows. "Are you sure? What do you think, Kaylee?"

Kaylee shot him a puzzled look, but leaned over to see over Jayne's shoulder. "It don't say nothin' about monkeys," she said, shooting Jayne a glare. "It says 'Sir John Smith, Director of Antiquities.'"

The Doctor's grin broadened as Jayne began to sputter indignantly. He leaned across to recover the leather wallet. "You're both correct," he said before the argument between the merc and the mechanic could heat up. "This," he held up the wallet between two fingers, "shows someone whatever I want them to see–or whatever they expect to see." He opened it and showed it to Mal.

Mal blinked. "John Smith, Accounting," he said. He looked back up at the Doctor, a question in his eyes.

"It's psychic paper," said the Doctor. "Well, _slightly _psychic paper. Next to my sonic screwdriver, it's the most useful thing in the universe. It can tell them I'm a police officer, a corporate executive, anything I like, or that will make them give me access to the places I want to go."

Zoe gave some thought to all the things they could do with a piece of paper that showed whatever kind of i.d. they wanted to someone to see. From the look on Mal's face, he was thinking the same thing. "Huh," he said. "So we could get into the office without any trouble?"

The Doctor nodded. "Provided none of us does something really obvious like wear a sign that says 'gate crasher.' Or take Jayne along." He ignored Jayne's indignant "Hey!"

"I suppose you want to go."

The Doctor spread his hands, his expression innocent. "It _is_ my paper," he said.

"Yeah." Mal sighed, and shot a look at Zoe. An eyebrow twitched in question.

She considered their options, rubbing a hand pensively over her stomach. The baby kicked a rib, and she suppressed a wince. "The Doc's got the experience usin' the stuff," she said finally. "If you think you can trust him, sir, I don't see why you and he can't go."

Mal nodded. "All right. Now, if we–"

"I'm going."

Zoe did not join the others in turning to stare at Inara in surprise. There was a set to the woman's jaw and a fire in her dark, dark eyes that Zoe thought she recognized. _I wonder if you know just how far down the path you're going, Inara_, she thought. _A step or two further, and you'll never go back again._

Mal's response was reflexive, and typically idiotic. "No way in hell."

"Have you ever _been_ in a corporate office, Mal?" asked Inara coolly.

"That's not–"

"I have. The Guild deals with nearly every major corporation in the 'verse, on all levels of business." She shot a glare at Jayne as the mercenary started to grin. Jayne, showing uncharacteristic wisdom, hastily wiped the smirk off his face. "And I'm sorry, but I think you two are going to need someone less...scruffy...to smooth the way."

Both the Doctor and Mal let out a simultaneous protest of "Scruffy!" that was soundly ignored, though Kaylee giggled. Mal scowled ferociously and folded his arms over his chest.

"Simon has the look, but I'm sorry, you just aren't a good enough actor..." Inara continued with an apologetic glance at the young surgeon.

Simon smiled ruefully, no doubt recalling his last attempt on Higgins' Moon. "That's all right. I think I can live without the excitement."

"Zoe can't, and Kaylee and River are both too young. Jayne..." They all considered Jayne, who belched and scratched his belly. "Exactly." Inara smiled brightly at Mal. "That leaves _me._"

Mal's scow grew to epic proportions, but Zoe knew every twitch of expression in the man. He couldn't come up with a reasonable protest, he was beaten, and he knew it. "You even _got_ a business suit?" he growled finally.

"Oh, I'm sure I can come up with something. I came up with hiking boots, didn't I?"

Mal mumbled something profane under his breath, but said finally, "All right, fine."

"Brilliant," said the Doctor happily. "I do love a spot of espionage."


	19. Chapter 19: Identity

**Author's Note: I got some new readers! That's always such a pleasure. Welcome to the story. :) Just a few more days, and they'll start showing episodes of "The Sarah Jane Adventures." I got to see the pilot episode, and it was quite charming. Nice to see an intelligent, well written children's show. For those of you less familiar with the Whoverse, Sarah Jane Smith, a freelance reporter, was one of the Doctor's most beloved companions. Now older, she spends her time assisting stranded aliens, staving off alien threats, and getting to know her newly-adopted son. I'm looking forward to seeing more of the series (especially since I refuse to watch Torchwood) and of Sarah Jane. (And good heavens, I hope I age that well!!)**

**Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day: "Must have blacked out."  
"Yes, you did. The G-force cut the blood supply to what you humans laughingly call your higher centres."  
"I hate sarcasm, especially when I'm dying." –Sarah Jane and the Doctor, in "The Android Invasion"**

** Amusing Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Mal: Your husband has demanded that we sleep together.  
Zoe: Really?  
Wash: What? Mal, come on.  
Mal: He seems to think it would get all this burning sexual tension out in the open -- you know, make a fair fight for your womanly affections.  
Wash: No. That was the torture talking. Remember? The torture? --"War Stories"**

**(Sub-Note: Sorry about the edit. It was just to put in the scene dividers that, mysteriously, vanished and which I was too oblivious to notice missing. :) And none of you told me!) **

* * *

**  
**

"All the saints and all the prophets  
All the secrets that you keep  
Exist with one intriguing question  
Tell me dearest - who are we?"  
–The Cruxshadows, "Love and Hatred"

River moved on soundless feet down the length of the passenger cabins. Her brother's, meticulously neat as always, was starting to feel empty. He spent most nights in Kaylee's bunk now. Sometimes she missed having his comforting presence so close at hand–but it was past time she learned to walk like a girl again, not a broken doll.

Her own cabin felt even emptier than his; she hated staying in there too long. The walls were too close, and all the times she'd slept in there meant the walls breathed nightmares. Kaylee had tried to make it happier, by painting the walls and putting up pretty pictures, but bad dreams didn't stay trapped behind paint and paper.

Carnival music still played in her head. It had been a fun day, walking under bright sky with Kaylee and the Doctor. Even the crowds hadn't hurt too badly; their excitement loud, but mostly happy. There was so much of it, after awhile it blurred into something almost as good as silence, preventing her from being invaded by too many individual thoughts. But the darkness had come back, invading and tearing at the happiness. She'd known about Three Hills then, seen the torn and broken towns, filled with blood and agony.

She came to a stop outside the cabin the Doctor pretended to use, the one that used to belong to Shepherd Book. The door was mostly open. Trying to overcome Inara's label of 'scruffy' he had produced somewhat more suitable accessories, and now was grumbling over the tying of a cravat. He'd kept his usual brown pinstriped suit and scuffed, bright canvas shoes, but added a matching vest and the cravat in place of his old-fashioned necktie. He had his spectacles perched on his nose as he squinted in frustration at the small mirror on the wall, and his hair stood up in tufts where he'd run his fingers through it.

"It's been too bloody long since I had to tie one of these, River my girl," he said to her, though she was not standing where he could see her. "My fingers seem to have forgotten how." He straightened and tossed the length of cream-colored cloth to the floor in annoyance. "Maybe I'll just wear a scarf or something. Got quite a few of those. Or stick with the usual tie. Scruffy," he muttered, offended. "And me a vision of sartorial splendor. Well, all right. Maybe not _these_ days, but still–it's better than a jumper and a leather jacket, isn't it?"

River glided into the little room and picked up the cravat. "Sit," she ordered, pointing at the bunk.

He did so, faint amusement rolling off him. "Thank you," he said, as River looped the length of fabric around his neck and began to knot it properly.

"Used to do it for Simon all the time," she said softly. "Before I went away and got broken. He had to learn to do it himself. Had to learn to do everything for himself, and for me." Her voice wavered, pain breaking through.

The Doctor caught her hand before it could clench in the folds of the cravat and ruin it. "What happened to you, River?" He tugged at her hand until she sat down beside him. "Mal told me some about Miranda, but I know there's more to it."

She hunched her shoulders. "Old men, with blood on their hands," she whispered. "They wanted weapons, even if they were broken."

His eyes narrowed behind the thick-rimmed spectacles. "You were experimented on?" he guessed.

She nodded, old misery and rage clawing at her heart. "Dressed up like a doll. Needles in my eyes, asking what I see." She sucked in a breath, and fought to make sense. "The Academy. We thought it was a school, but they–they–" She choked on the words; they threatened to drown her. She'd never told anyone what happened, not in words that made sense. Not in detail, like she saw in her nightmares and memories.

The Doctor slid off the bunk to kneel in front of her, heedless of the damage the floor was doing to his trousers. His eyes held hers, deep and dark and endless. She could fall into that darkness, fall forever. But it wasn't a scary darkness, not for her. She saw only compassion there, heard only concern in his thoughts. "May I see?" he asked softly.

"You asked," she said, voice catching on a sob. "No one ever asks, even when they try to make me better."

He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling a little. "I do remember _some_ of the manners my mother taught me. It's rude to poke around other people's brains without permission."

"I know," whispered River. "But I do. I can't help it. I can't keep them out."

"May I see?" he asked again.

She nodded, but she couldn't hide her terror.

He tilted his head. "I won't if you don't want me to," he said, his voice very gentle. "Or if you'd like your brother here..."

"I don't know," River whispered miserably. "I see into other people's heads all the time, and they're in my head, but..."

"But it's another thing entirely to consciously _allow_ another being into your mind. Believe me, I quite understand."

She knew he did, just as she knew he would not harm her. But the thought of allowing him to see inside her mind, to really _see_ how broken she was, choked her with fear. He'd see she was a monster, that they'd turned her into something horrible...

The Doctor stood , pulling her up into a warm hug. "It's all right," he said quietly. "Now isn't a good time anyway." He pulled back and smiled down at her. "I expect what I'll see in your poor head will only make me angry–and that isn't a good thing for me to be, not when I have to go be charming and devious with the corporate drones."

She smiled back, relieved. "When you come back, I won't drown. I'll breathe, and let you see."

"I'll have to tell you about some of my more amusing experiences with telepathy," he replied, drawing a gentle finger along her cheek. "You should have seen my face when I realized a _very _attractive woman had walked _right_ into my memories while I was scanning hers." He patted River's back. "It'll be all right."

The question hung in the air, burning bright like a star. River looked at it, and decided to ask. "Can...can you help me?"

The Doctor's face was grave. "I really don't know, River."

"You're the Doctor. You make things right."

"Yes. But sometimes I can't. Sometimes I fail." His voice was low; River could see clearly that it was not an admission he liked making. Then he smiled again. "Thank you for tying my cravat for me," he said. His eyes slid away. "Most of my life, I've traveled with other people; I suppose I'm a bit lost when I'm on my own."

"You miss her. You miss all of them, but you miss her the most, right now, because she saved you. Bad Wolf."

His gaze flew back to hers, eyes startled-wide. In his shirt-sleeves and vest, without the armor of suit coat and overcoat, he looked very young and exposed. "You see a lot, don't you?"

"Too much."

"What do you see when you look at me?"

River squinted at him, making his face blur. Seeing _him_, young, old, tall, short, thin, stocky. White hair, blonde hair, black hair, brown hair, curly and straight, long and short. Grey eyes and blue, brown and green and everything in between. Laughter, judgement, fury, love, arrogance, compassion, loneliness. "You've been broken so many times," she said finally. "So many different faces, different voices. Different selves. But the same soul. Why aren't you crazy like me, changing so much?"

"Who says I'm not?" He sat down again, propping his back against the wall. After a moment, River did the same, still studying the strange young face with its ancient eyes intently. "You know what I am, don't you?" asked the Doctor, fiddling with a watch chain on his vest rather than looking at her. He drew out a pocket watch of some silvery metal, its surface engraved with intricate, astronomical symbols and words in a flowing alien script.

"Seeing and knowing aren't the same. I see you, but I still don't _know_. I feel your hearts in my chest, hear the thunder in your head. I can smell the storm, but it's..."

"Alien?" He ran his fingers over the surface of the watch, still not meeting her eyes.

River nodded. "But not really."

He let out a soft breath of laughter, bitter as wormwood. "Oh, you haven't seen me in a crisis yet. I've been told I'm _really_ alien, then."

"You look at the big picture. You miss little, human things."

"Yes." The Doctor sighed and pulled off his glasses, tucking the watch away with a hand that trembled only a little. "The irony is, most of my own people felt I was entirely _too_ human most of the time." His eyes grew impossibly distant, seeing something long gone. That sorrow had grown old, but no less painful. River felt it like a great weight on her soul.

"You're Captain Nemo," she announced.

He cocked an amused eye at her. "Am I then?"

"You're no one, and everyone. You don't have a name, or a home, or a family. Not anymore. Lost."

For a moment, the Doctor's face looked as old as he was. Then he smiled, chasing away the vulnerability. "You, River, are a truly terrifying young woman. I like that."

"I'll keep your secret."

"I appreciate that, thank you." The Doctor sighed. "And now I must be off to break into headquarters. I expect it won't go smoothly; it never does." He stood, tugged at his vest to straighten it, then reached for his suit coat. Shrugging it on, he turned back to River. "Well? Do I look presentable?"

"Your hair is sticking up."

"Yes, it does that. I've given up trying to make it behave. Aside from the hair?"

"Shiny. But I think I liked the green velvet coat better."

His eyes narrowed. "Terrifying," he said again, chuckling a little. Then added, "And the green velvet coat only went with long hair and green eyes. Surely you can see _that_ along with everything else."

River smiled. "Inara will twist your arm if you're late."

"I can well imagine." He held out a hand to her. "Care to come with me to find her?"

"I'll stay. I want to think."

"Dangerous, that." But his smile said he didn't mean it. "Very well. I'll see you later, strange River."

"Maybe." River blinked as she caught a sudden glimpse. "Be very careful today, Doctor. You won't like what you see."

* * *

"Oh, very posh," said the Doctor, looking around the lush, ornate lobby of Renier Enterprises, Ltd. "Bit excessive, though. He's got a bit of everything, hasn't he? Gothic Revival, Art Nouveau _and_ Art Deco–don't think those really go together–bit of Rococo, bit of Baroque..."

"It certainly is, uh, overwhelming," Inara murmured.

"Mm. My eyeballs may start bleeding at any moment. But very posh, nonetheless."

Inara smiled at this, but her gaze drifted from studying the lobby back to Mal, who was making a magnificent show of not studying _her._ The business suit she'd unearthed from the bottom of her trunk was, by her standards and nearly everyone else's, absolutely demure, but Mal's jaw had dropped in a perfectly gratifying manner when she came out of her shuttle wearing it. He'd recovered himself quickly enough, managing not to drool _too_ noticeably, and Inara allowed herself to feel inwardly pleased at his reaction. He didn't do it very often, at least not where she saw it.

Mal had gotten into the spirit of things, and she'd been shocked herself when she saw what he'd come up with. She'd expected him to cling stubbornly to his usual old-uniform-trousers and suspenders. Instead he'd pulled out the formal suit she hadn't seen since that debacle on Persephone, and with his normally untidy hair combed back a-la-Simon and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles produced from gods-knew-where he looked...well, he looked as though he and the Doctor could be brothers, for one. Brown suits, brown hair, spectacles...it was like having her very own matched pair of accountants. And that was the story they'd decided on: Inara would play high-powered something-or-other, and Mal and the Doctor would be her hapless lackeys. And Mal looked...surprisingly professional in his disguise. He was such a man's man, most of the time, that it was strangely endearing to see him in something less...soldierly.

"Do we even know what we're lookin' for?" Mal muttered.

"Not as such," replied the Doctor blithely. "But I'll know it when I see it."

Mal's nostrils flared in annoyance, but before he could reply Inara said "Time to go. The receptionist is starting to look at us oddly." She lifted her chin, arranging her expression into a cool and haughty mask as she strode toward the great curved desk.

The receptionist, a thin blonde woman of uncertain age and artificially enhanced beauty, returned the look with a stare nearly as arrogant. "May I help you?"

Inara gestured imperiously toward the Doctor. "My credentials." The Doctor handed over the leather wallet containing the psychic paper, with an uncharacteristically meek expression on his narrow features. On her other side, Inara heard Mal draw in a breath and not let it out. _Merciful Buddha, please let this work..._

The receptionist took the wallet and opened it. After a moment, her eyes widened. "Oh. Of course. My apologies, madam." She smiled now, deferential. "You're here for the audit."

"I expect to have a full look at everything," said Inara.

"Yes of course. The elevator will give you access. You have your ident card?"

Inara gave her a thin smile. "Don't be ridiculous."

The receptionist flushed. "Right this way, madam."

Alonzo Vega's ident card–cleaned of its DNA coding and theft tracer by the Doctor in some mysterious fashion–granted them instant access to the elevator. Out of the corner of her eye, Inara saw the receptionist relax visibly when she saw that the card worked. Fear of a superior's wrath if the almighty auditor had been given a faulty card, or suspicion that the auditor was an imposter?

"Seems a bit paranoid, for an entertainment company," remarked Mal once the doors had closed.

The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and squinted professionally at the control panel. "Clearly you haven't spent much time around media corporations," he replied. "Most of them make military units look open and friendly. On some planets, the phrase 'it's a cutthroat business' _isn't_ meant as a metaphor."

"They seem to be expecting an auditor," said Inara.

"Good." The Doctor ran a finger over the buttons, and pressed one at random. "No one will get too fussed when we go about asking nosy questions then."

"As long as the _real_ auditors don't show up, we should be all right."

The Doctor gave Inara a pained look. "Oh, did you _have_ to say that? Now they're bound to turn up." He shook his head and turned his attention to the building map on the wall. "I swear, everyone has to go and jinx it all, saying things like 'It can't possibly get any worse' or 'Ooh, it's unsinkable!' Absolute rubbish. Now, shall we begin with the employee lounge?"

"Why?"

"Gossip? Chatting up disgruntled employees, maybe?" The Doctor sighed. "Actually, I thought we could grab a coffee and a snack before we got started. I'm starving."

* * *

"River?" Simon poked his head into her room. It was, unsurprisingly, empty. He sighed, and started back the way he'd come. River seemed better than she had been, and she assured him that she didn't need him fussing over her all the time, but he couldn't help but worry. He'd watched out for her their entire lives; he was more parent than brother to her in so many ways. And he still had twinges of guilt over his relationship with Kaylee–though he was careful not to mention that in Kaylee's hearing, and if he tried to tell River about it she just suggested he was an idiot. Which was, he reflected ruefully, probably true. He and interpersonal relationships had never got on well.

He found his sister in the cargo bay, pressed up against the side of the Doctor's odd blue box, like she was trying to hug the thing. Simon studied the tableau for a moment, then gave up. Trying to figure out _why_ his sister did anything had been futile even before the Alliance made her crazy.

But he had to ask. River seemed drawn to their strange new passenger, and Simon wasn't sure he was all that thrilled about it. "River, what are you doing?"

"Shhh," she said. "I'm listening." She had her ear pressed against the blue-painted wood. Simon eyed the box dubiously. _Police Public Call Box_. He'd never seen anything like it, though presumably it once had something to do with law enforcement. It was weird, though...his eyes kept wanting to slide right past it, to not notice it, even though it was very clearly _there_.

"Is there something inside?" he asked. No one had so much as caught a glimpse of what the Doctor kept in there. Funny, no one had even speculated...

"It's alive," said River.

"What is?" But he reached out to touch the wood. It was smooth and slick under his fingers–and strangely warm. He could almost feel a slight hum, a vibration that didn't belong with ordinary, blue-painted wood. He jerked his hand away, telling himself it was just his imagination.

"It sings sometimes," continued River, still leaning against the box. "And it has stories."

"River..." He didn't want to tell her it couldn't possibly be alive. For all he knew, to River it _was_. Her perception of the world was so strange, he knew he would never be able to understand it. That knowledge alone made him long to condemn the Alliance and all their gorram 'research' to the deepest pits of hell. By changing her so profoundly, they'd forever separated he and River. Before, despite the fact that next to her he was an idiot child, they'd still thought alike. He'd been able to follow the leaps and bounds her brilliant mind made, albeit more slowly. He could never do that again, and he hated them for it.

He sat down cross-legged on the floor before her. "You really seem to like the Doctor," he commented. He squashed firmly all his desires to urge her to be careful, that they knew nothing about the man, that he was far too old for her, and so on and so forth. He needed to be Simon-the-friend, or possibly Simon-the-psychiatrist, not Simon-the-overprotective-big-brother.

River wasn't fooled. She wrinkled her nose at him. "He bothers you."

"Well...he bothers most of us. Except you, and possibly Kaylee. He's just so..."

"He's different," she agreed. "But he's safe."

"Safe? Okay," he agreed. "I'm sure you, of all of us, are the most qualified to tell. But River, who _is_ he? He's been on this ship for weeks, and we still know nothing about him."

Her lips curved into a mysterious smile. "He's the Trickster God," she said. "He opens minds, makes them see what they are. Shows the choices, makes them choose."

"Uh...okay." Simon didn't bother trying to pretend he understood. He was never really sure when to take his sister literally, and when she was being metaphorical. He'd learned not to ask.

"Do you know," she said, her voice suddenly brisk. "I used to think I was special."

She sounded more like the old River, the girl from before the Academy. "You _are_ sp–" he started, but she interrupted him.

"No, not like that," River said impatiently. "I thought I was special because everyone else was _ordinary_. But Simon–_there is no ordinary._ Not through his eyes. No such thing as an ordinary human, ordinary _anything_. What must it be like, to see like that all the time? To never lose that wonder?"

"I...really don't know." Simon gave it some thought. What _would_ it be like, to see the best potential, the beauty, in everything? When had _he_ last seen things that way? Probably when he was about five. Maybe not even then.

Then River stiffened, her eyes going wide, and philosophical thoughts flew right out of Simon's head. "What is it, River? What's wrong?"

"Bad timing," she hissed. "It's started."


	20. Chapter 20: Before the Chaos

**Updated Author's Note: This chapter has a few more extensive corrections. Namely, that HUGE block of thought from Inara midway through the chapter has been broken up by a little bit of action. :) I quite agree, it was a bit much for an info dump. However, everything I wrote was, I felt, important to Inara's character (and anyway, it was good writing) but it was a bit long all at one go. Hopefully a bit of interjection from the boys as they work on the security gate helps. :)**

**Original Author's Note: It's not just for kids! The first two episodes of the Sarah Jane Adventures were _fantastic_. (And watching Sarah, I find myself wondering why the hell the Doctor _ever_ left her behind...) Apologies for the delay in posting; schoolwork ate all my time. And, well, so did the new Terry Pratchett novel. That man is a freakin' genius...**

**Doctor Quote of the Day (Steel yourselves, it's a lengthy bit!):**

**"'Now it's your turn to listen,' he told Slake. The vampire raised his eyebrow again. 'I'm a Time Lord,' said the Doctor. 'From the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous.'  
Slake gaped at him, showing his fangs.  
'Moreover,' said the Doctor, carefully pushing his salad bowl into the centre of the table, 'I'm a former President of the High Council of the Time Lords, Keeper of the Legacy of Rassilon, Defender of the Laws of Time and Protector of Gallifrey. I'm called the Bringer of Darkness, the Oncoming Storm, and the Evergreen Man. My people fought yours ten million years ago. We annihilated every vampire in existence – with a few skulking, terrified exceptions who crawled away to spread their curse elsewhere.' He stood up, looming over Slake. 'I personally dispatched the King of the Great Vampires. If you harm James Court in any way, I will hunt down every last one of your pitiful band of bloodsuckers and see that each of you is destroyed. Permanently. Is that clear?'  
Slake didn't say anything, staring up at the ancient enemy." --The Eighth Doctor, in "Vampire Science" (novel)**

**Firefly Quote of the Day:**

**Zoe: Preacher, don't the Bible have some pretty specific things to say about killing?  
Book: Quite specific. It is, however, somewhat fuzzier on the subject of kneecaps. --From "War Stories"**

"Into the silence will you answer

Before the chaos will you come?"

–The Cruxshadows, "Sophia"

"Four hours," muttered Mal. "Four hours and seventeen minutes, actually, and we haven't found out a damn thing."

"Yes, it _is_ getting rather tedious, isn't it?" the Doctor asked cheerfully. "You'd think _someone_ would know there murky goings on in the company, but nooo, it's all petty cheating and skiving off work early. But d'you know what's _really_ bothering me? There's absolutely nothing at all in the computers. No secret files, no locked servers–or, at least, nothing that is anything to do with things other than the entertainment industry. Very odd." He shrugged. "Or I'm completely wrong and there's nothing at all sinister going on here."

"You're not serious?" Inara demanded.

"No, I'm not. There's something going on here, I'm certain of it."

"How?" Mal snapped.

The Doctor hesitated. "Well...a hunch? Gut instinct? Woman's intuition–no, hang on, I can't claim that, can I?" His eyes gleamed. "Or how about the fact that, in all the people we've pestered, prodded, and interrogated in the last four hours, not a _one_ of them has ever seen or spoken to Carson Renier? And, in fact, when asked about him, wander off the subject as if they had no idea what we're talking about? You said, before, that Renier is a big name on Paquin. But all the information we've found so far indicates this is a fairly new company. It only appeared in the last three or four years."

Inara exchanged glances with Mal. "He's right," she said slowly. "Now that I think about it, no one seems to know who Carson Renier really is."

Mal's eyebrows drew together, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd pulled off the spectacles two hours earlier, complaining that they were making his nose sore. Inara had the feeling he was self-conscious about them, and found herself wondering if they weren't really his after all. "It ain't bein' cagey, either," he said. "It's almost as if..." He broke off, his frown deepening. "As if they can't see him," he finished in a softer voice.

"Perception barrier," said the Doctor, tucking his own spectacles into his breast pocket. "Keeps the average person from noticing an object, a person. Even memories or events, or whole planets, if the one building the barrier is good enough."

Mal's eyes narrowed. "Or a tall blue box, maybe?" he asked pointedly.

"Oooh, you _are_ a clever one. Yes, something like that." The Doctor's smile seemed a little forced.

"Doctor..."

"Now is _not_ the time, Captain. All will be made clear in due course, I promise. Or mostly clear, anyway. Well, I _say_ 'clear' but really I suppose if you get down to it I'm never really...No, why don't we locate the service elevator? Four people have given us four conflicting sets of directions, and I'm starting to get suspicious." And off he went, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune.

"You aren't the only one," growled Mal.

"What is it?" Inara asked quietly as they followed the Doctor.

"You remember that blue box he brought on board?"

"Well...yes. What about it?"

"Aren't you the least bit curious about it?"

Inara blinked. "I–I hadn't really thought about it much. But it's his box, isn't it? It's none of my business..."

"Inara, I realize the Guild is all about the discretion thing, but you want to tell me you didn't wonder about it even a little bit?"

"I...no, you're right. I _really_ haven't thought about it. Like..." She stared at Mal.

"Like you couldn't even see it," he finished. "And he," he jerked his chin at the Doctor several feet ahead, "as much as admitted that there's one of those perception whatsits on it. On a plain blue box? Why? And how is it he's capable of doin' something like that?"

"You think he's connected to this situation?"

"He's connected to something," said Mal grimly. "And the trust he got on Three Hills is rapidly runnin' out."

"You might be interested to know," said the Doctor, "I can hear every word you're saying, as I am not three feet away and I have excellent hearing. But no matter, here's the service elevator!" He gestured to a plain pair of metal doors, with only a single button set into the wall beside them. He pushed it, and waited. A moment later, the doors slid open to reveal a dingy cab. "C'mon."

Inside, he bent to study the panel of buttons. "Ah, finally. Look here, underneath 'basement.' A sub-basement, and ooh look, it needs a key." He pulled out his screwdriver and leveled it at the panel. There was a soft 'thunk' and the sub-basement button lit up. The Doctor beamed like a pleased child. "Easy-peasy," he declared. "Good thing you lot don't seem to have figured out deadlock seals yet."

A strained silence settled over the three as the elevator descended. Inara could see the growing impatience and fury in Mal's eyes, and found she could not blame him. She could read the Doctor no better than when she had first met him, and it was increasingly obvious that he was playing games. And yet...the Doctor was right; now _really_ wasn't the time for a confrontation. She reached out and put a hand on Mal's arm. The muscles beneath his sleeve were hard as steel, rigid with tension and suppressed anger. At her touch his eyes flew to hers, and a heartbeat later he made a visible effort to relax.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid back to reveal a large sign that declared this area was for authorized personnel only. It was posted on a large gate set in a fence, with an ident scanner beside it. The Doctor frowned at it.

"Somehow I don't think old Alonzo's card is going to be much use here," he said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

"What about the paper?" asked Inara.

"No good. That only works on organic beings and, very occasionally, on machines with psychic wiring. Which this probably hasn't got." He tilted his head. "No, I think more basic burglaring skills are required here." He held up his screwdriver and pointed it at the fence. The little tool whined for a moment, and the Doctor sniffed. "Electrified and wired with alarms. How quaint. Still, this is going to be almost as much fun as breaking into J. Edgar Hoover's private safe!" He rubbed his hands together, then pulled off overcoat and jacket, and began rolling up his sleeves. "Captain Reynolds–are you any good at disarming alarms?"

"Yes," said Mal curtly.

"How good?"

"Good enough to keep me alive during the war. Somethin' you sorta learn fast if you want to break in and out of Alliance munitions dumps without gettin' shot."

The Doctor grinned. "Brilliant. Give us a hand, then, _allons-y_!" The spectacles reappeared, and he hunkered down to the left of the gate.

Mal joined the Doctor in crouching by the fence, tugging off his own coat, his anger momentarily forgotten in the exciting prospect of playing sneak-thief. Inara sighed. Men. She bent to retrieve the discarded coats. Her part in this–getting them smoothly through encounters with real people–was more or less over, she supposed. The best she could do now would be to play watchwoman.

Watching Mal as he began teasing wires out of a panel set into the floor, Inara pondered his reaction in the elevator. She hadn't had to do anything but look at him, and he'd understood what she wanted to say. When had they gotten so good at nonverbal communication? Inara wondered. It didn't seem very long ago that they couldn't even manage _verbal_ interaction without misunderstanding. Their relationship had never been simple, but she was painfully aware that, since her suspension from the Guild, in many ways it had become a lot less complicated. Moreover, whenever she considered contacting the Guild to discuss terms for her reinstatement, she found herself finding one excuse after another to put it off. And, she was coming to realize, Malcolm Reynolds was not the one to blame. Oh, he was part of it, certainly–but Inara had to face the fact that, after the initial shock of her suspension from the Guild had worn off, her primary emotion was one of relief. But..._why_? She'd been taken into the Guild as a child, it defined her, had been her whole life. It was who she was...wasn't it?

"This is...complicated looking," mumbled Mal, frowning down at the mess of tiny wires. He shot a furtive glance at Inara, then tugged the spectacles out and put them back on. "You got pliers?" he asked the Doctor. "Needlenose, preferably."

She had been a bright star on Sihnon, well on her way to becoming a House Mother. No one there had understood why she had abruptly uprooted herself from a comfortable, successful life and left the Core to wander among the "savage" outer planets. _She_ hadn't understood the real reason, not at first, instead telling herself that it was to expand her client base, to broaden her experience and so become a better Companion. But the captain of the ship she'd chosen was a hotheaded, stubborn man who openly challenged what she was. Initially, she'd believed it was a barbaric Border-worlder's response to the refined sophistication of a Companion, a mixture of lust and fear of the incomprehensible and unattainable. But then she realized that Mal's treatment of her differed very little from how he treated everyone else. That he gave _no_ one respect, unless he felt they'd earned it, that in his eyes social rank was an illusion. He saw her as an individual human being, nothing more, nothing less. Someone to squabble and argue and laugh with like he did everyone else. More awkwardly than others, perhaps, because there _was_ desire mixed in there from the start–Malcolm Reynolds was upright and breathing, after all–but it was the first time in her life someone did not see her just as a Companion.

The Doctor left his own tangle of wires to peer at the small computer screen next to the card reader. He leveled his odd screwdriver at it, and a moment later data filled the display. He began muttering under his breath. It sounded like mathematical equations. On the floor, Mal paused in his work to listen for a few moments. "Care to translate some of that, Doc?" he asked.

The distant sound of a door slamming shut made them all freeze, unbreathing and listening hard. When no further sounds came, the Doctor began indicating wires and naming their functions. After a few seconds Mal nodded and said, "I think I got it." He bent again to the wires, probing with the pliers. Inara still listened for sounds of approach, but her thoughts drifted back to their earlier musings.

Her realization about Mal's nature did not make his persistent disrespect and frequent insulting remarks any less exasperating, but in time she came to realize that she looked forward to their frequent clashes, even that she would actively seek him out after being with a client, exposing herself to his contempt for her profession. It took her a longer time to realize that she did so not because she enjoyed a battle of wits with him (even Mal admitted that she was better armed than he in that department) but _because he made her feel like a human being_. Not a Companion. Not an object of desire, or a professional whose every word and action was designed for the client's well-being and comfort, but a _woman_ to be desired as a thinking, feeling individual, whose thoughts and opinions were her own and that he was interested in hearing even if he didn't agree. (Which they frequently didn't. But then it gave him something to shout about, and she'd quickly realized that Mal was never so happy as when he had something to yell about.) He didn't try to court her favor, and he almost never tried to make her change her mind about something they didn't see eye to eye on. He let her _be_. No one had ever done that for her. And because Malcolm Reynolds saw Inara, not a Companion, Inara had begun to see...herself.

"Hang on," said the Doctor, and his fingers flew over the keypad. "There's a security program trolling. Let me distract it...There." Mal, who had paused at the Doctor's words, swiftly finished stripping the wires he held and then carefully twisted them together. He reached for another pair.

It was a violation of Guild law. Oh, it wasn't actually written down, or even said openly anywhere that a Companion was not an individual–but it was in every aspect of the training, the way of living. A Companion was selfless, gave to others and took nothing for her-or-himself. Gave comfort, advice, and pleasure, taking or keeping nothing but the fee. All her life, Inara had believed it was a higher way, unselfish. Then she'd seen _real _selflessness, among the crew of _Serenity_, among the people of the border planets. Little things, mostly. Zoe's unthinking balance of her duties to captain and to husband, and the way she never lost her own independence. The fact that Mal almost never took his captain's share of pay on anything but paper, but instead poured everything he had back into his ship and his crew. The way Kaylee tried to brighten the lives of everyone around her, for no other reason than because she was a happy person and wanted others to feel the same. Shepherd Book's unending patience with Mal's temper and flexible conscience. Even Jayne, a mercenary thug to his fingertips, but who sent nearly all his pay home to his mother and younger siblings, because they were poor and his father was dead and there was no one else to support them–and who seemed surprised if anyone indicated that this might be unusual behavior. And all of this seemed as natural as breathing to them, and Inara had come to see that the Guild's definition of 'selfless' was instead a way to enable the selfishness of those who paid for a Companion's services, and make sure that Companion and Guild both had a steady inflow of credits. That was when she'd begun to understand why Mal used the word 'whore' when he spoke of her profession, and faced the unpleasant sensation of seeing her own soul in a mirror, realizing that the years of existing only for others' desire had left it stunted and withering fast.

"I hope you know what you're doing," said the Doctor, dubiously, as Mal twisted together another set of wires.

"_Gwon ni tze jee duh shr_," growled Mal. "I know what I'm doing. You just make sure the computer don't cotton to what we're doing."

Inara took a few steps away, toward the service corridor branching off the elevators, listening hard. Nothing, thank Buddha.

She'd clung to her role as Companion, because the prospect of stepping away, into the abyss of the unknown and being forced to _become_ was too terrifying to contemplate. In the end, she'd fled _Serenity_ itself rather than face the choice. But it was too late by then; Inara Serra was a person in her own right, thanks to Malcolm Reynolds and his strange family and the desires of her own deepest self. She could not shrink herself back into the mold of her old life. She tried compromising, setting up the training school for the Guild on the outer worlds, but when the time came she chose loyalty to _Serenity_ over all else. No...be honest, now. Not _loyalty _to _Serenity_, but _love_. Love for the crew, that oddest of families and, most of all, love for the man who led and loved them all in return to the limits of his broken heart.

_Yes, just admit it, Inara. You're in love with the man, and haven't the first idea what to do about it. Guild training didn't cover things like this._

There were no answers yet, no plan; mostly she took it a single day at a time and hoped for the best. Maybe that was all she _could_ do, in the end. Maybe happiness was something you had to _decide_, rather than waiting for it happen to you.

With a sigh, Inara released her tangled thoughts. She wasn't being a very good guard, letting her mind wander like that. That she _would_ blame on Mal; her mind wandered whenever she let herself simply stand back and watch the man. "How much longer?" she asked.

"Mmf," replied the Doctor, who had the sonic screwdriver clenched between his teeth while he used both hands to hold a complicated net of wiring up so Mal could work underneath.

"Bit further," clarified Mal. "Last time I did something like this was when we heisted the Lassiter gun–and it wasn't half so complex as this."

Inara smiled. "At least you haven't got Saffron hanging over your shoulder this time."

"I dunno. My blushing psychotic bride was quite the incentive to _not_ screw up."

"Mmf?" The Doctor's eyebrows arched upwards in curiosity. His glasses had slid down to the very tip of his nose, threatening to fall right off.

"Nevermind." Mal hissed in pain as sparks flared and stung his skin, but he didn't jerk his hand back. "Almost...got it..._there._" He looked up expectantly. Nothing happened.

"Did it work?" Inara demanded.

"Well...it should be looped in on itself," said Mal. "Couldn't actually disarm it, or someone might have noticed. So either it's worked and we can get through just fine–or it didn't and we'll have security down here in about five minutes."

"No time to waste, either way," said the Doctor, removing the screwdriver from his mouth and removing his glasses. He stuffed the wires back into their cubby and reattached the cover plate, then got to his feet and used the screwdriver to force the gate's lock.

"I _want _one of those," Mal muttered to Inara, retrieving the coats from her and tossing the Doctor's over to him.

"Maybe," said the Doctor, "if you're very good, I'll give you one for Christmas. I don't hand them out to just anyone you know. This way." Shrugging both his coats back on, he took off down the corridor with long strides.

Mal hesitated, looking at Inara. "You okay?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"You seemed a mite distant back there, while we were workin' on the alarm."

Inara smiled faintly at him, a little surprised he'd had the attention to spare while working on a complex piece of electronics. Or...perhaps not so surprised, after all. Perhaps he was as hyper-aware of her actions as she was of his. "Just thinking. Nothing to worry about."

"All right. You ready for this, whatever 'this' is?"

"Not really. But you know–I think I'm all right with that."

They started after the Doctor. "You do have serene unruffledness down to an art, 'Nara."

"Mal, if that's a compliment, I may faint."

"Don't. Ain't got time to carry you."

"_Such_ a gentleman."

Mal grinned at her.

For the first several hundred yards, the corridor was standard basement: low ceiling made lower by exposed pipes, poor light, the inevitable places where things leaked, and the smell of mold and damp concrete. From time to time, another corridor led off somewhere else, but the Doctor never turned aside, apparently following some inner sense or instinct. They came to another pair of doors, which the Doctor had unlocked within seconds. The corridor beyond those doors was finished, in a glaring hospital white.

The Doctor reached out to touch the wall. "These are treated to be static-proof," he said. "Must be some serious electronic equipment nearby. Can you feel it?"

Inara became aware of a deep, low hum, more a sensation than an actual sound. "Machines," she said. "Big ones; it feels almost like a ship's engines."

"There's a lot of power being poured in here," agreed the Doctor. He cocked his head to the side and grinned. "And somehow I just don't think it's to do with the local round of pantomimes and farces."

The sterile, bland corridor continued for another fifty yards, then took a sharp right through another set of doors. These were unlocked, and swung open easily under the Doctor's touch. A set of stairs led down and through yet more doors. And beyond that...

Mal gave a low whistle. "Now, _this _is one hell of a lab," he said, looking around the cavernous room with some awe. The far wall was several hundred yards distant, and the stretch of floor between was full of equipment, monitors and rank upon rank of large cylinders, opaque and sinister.

"Lot of money here," observed the Doctor. "And..." he paused, tilting his head as though listening. "Yep. Definite psychic pulse. That's going to give me a headache, for sure." Apparently unconcerned by this, he strolled over to the nearest machine, putting his spectacles back on and bending for a closer look at the monitor. "Ooh, look at this!" He tapped the monitor with a long finger. "That's a chemical model of the human brain, that is. _Beautifully_ rendered. Just gorgeous." He moved down a few feet to look at another monitor. "And this one, and this one...oh, this one doesn't look right. If it's a human brain, it's a bloody abnormal one." He frowned at it. "Probably a Reaver brain, come to think of it. Your government _did_ make a mess of their heads, didn't it? No doubt about it, boys and girls, we've hit the jackpot for our little conspiracy. This is where someone's using those nasty little tags to muck about with people's minds. And _this_–" he gestured at the display again "– is a setup for mapping the extremely complex brain chemistry of a sentient creature and adapting it to psychic control. It's quite brilliant, actually. Horrible, but brilliant. Also, there's an odd quirk in the psionic matrix, right there–I wonder what that's for? Looks like it links into emotion, but I don't see how _that_ would..." he trailed off, staring intently at the readout before him.

Inara looked at the monitors and saw an incomprehensible jumble of symbols and numbers. She glanced at Mal, who shrugged. "You understand all this?" Mal asked the Doctor.

"Oh yes. Top of my class in chemistry, you know. Well, I say chemistry, but, y'know, it was really, really..." The Doctor squinted at yet another display. "Now this _is _interesting..."

"'Your' government?" Inara murmured to Mal.

"Not mine," he said, with a spark of humor. "I refuse to have anything to do with them." The humor died then, and his eyes narrowed. "'Your government'...and the way he said 'humans' before..."

"What is it?" asked Inara, feeling a stab of worry. There was a look in Mal's eyes...

He shook his head. "Something just occurred to me," was all he would say. "I thought I had him figured, but...What's that old saying, 'Nara, 'bout eliminating everything possible and being left with the impossible?"

"You're not making sense, Mal."

"I blame him." Mal nodded toward the Doctor, who was still engrossed in the display. "He's contagious."

Inara opened her mouth to tell Mal to stop being an idiot when a flicker caught her attention. She turned, heart in throat, but it was only another display, tucked in between a pair of the dark cylinders. This one was a three-dimensional holographic display, of something intricate and glowing. "What's that?" she asked.

The Doctor, hearing, looked up from his monitor. "What?" Inara pointed, and he came over for a better look.

"Another chemistry lesson?" asked Mal dryly.

"No," the Doctor said, his eyes widening. "No, that's–that's something else entirely."

**Chinese Translations:**

_**Gwon ni tze jee duh shr**_**: Mind your own business**


	21. Chapter 21: Unmasked

**Author's Note: The various speculations I've received from readers as to the identity of the villain have been vastly entertaining. :D**

** Doctor Quote of the Day:**

**The Doctor: "Therefore, if I've guessed correctly about the nature of helix energy, I should be able to drain it off."  
Sarah Jane: "But what if you've guessed wrong?"  
The Doctor: "When did I ever guess wrong about anything?"  
****Sarah Jane: ****"Lots of times." --The 4th Doctor and Sarah Jane, Masque of Mandragora**

**Firefly Quote of the Day:**

**Mal: Sure, it's humiliating. Having to lie there while the better man refuses to spill your blood. Mercy is the mark of a great man. [pokes his downed opponent in the stomach with his sword Guess I'm just a good man. [pokes him again, harder Well, I'm all right. --"Shindig"**

* * *

"Oh, well, the night is long; the beads of Time pass slow,  
Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.  
The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath..."  
–Led Zeppelin "The Battle of Evermore" 

Mal watched all the color drain from the Doctor's face. "No." The Doctor's voice was a whisper. He reached out as though to touch the floating, shifting symbol. "No, it _can't_ be."

"What is it?" Inara demanded, glancing toward the door. Mal, too, looked over his shoulder. Nothing yet, but he had an uneasiness in his gut that said they were running right out of time.

The Doctor did not seem to hear. "It couldn't _possibly.._."

"Doc," Mal growled. "_Unpack_."

The Doctor blinked at them, then straightened abruptly. "Right, sorry," he said, though he was unable to tear his eyes from the intricate design that hung suspended before them. "Only that's a _Mokshar _sigil, and no Moksha would _ever..._Oh, God," he breathed. "That explains the bit in the psionic matrix, linking into the emotions...oh, nononono, I can't _believe_–" He looked sick, both hands reaching up to fist in his hair.

Mal clenched his teeth. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and guess that these Mokshar ain't human?"

"No," said the Doctor absently. He lowered his hands, leaving his hair standing nearly straight up. It should have made him look ridiculous, comical–but the grave horror in his eyes stole all amusement from the scene. "They're an ancient race. One of the oldest in the universe, in fact, even older than mine. Bit avian in looks–skinny, feathery, kinda pointy. Empaths and healers of incredible power."

"Older than 'your people,' huh?" said Mal in a flat voice.

"They were probably the closest thing you could find in this universe to pure good," the Doctor continued, oblivious to Mal's remark. "I just can't accept that one of them would be involved in–in _this_." His voice dripped with disgust as he gestured at the lab around them.

"Mal?" Inara's voice was worried. She was watching his face, not the Doctor's. "What's wrong?"

"He ain't human," said Mal. "_Wuo duh tien ah_, _he's_ the gorram alien."

"I dropped you enough clues," said the Doctor coolly, still busy staring at the glowing sigil. "You've only just now realized? Oh dear. Sometimes I forget how slow humans can be. Can't be helped, I suppose, it's the way your brains are wired."

Mal clenched his fists, but fought down the urge to throttle the man. "Ain't exactly in my world view," he said, deadly dry.

"Sorry, that was a bit rude of me, I guess. I suppose it isn't your fault." The Doctor finally looked up at the both of them, and shoved his glasses back up his nose with a finger. "For reasons I can't fathom, the other races out there have left this little corner of Creation almost entirely alone. Have to look into that, when I go; I'm sure there's a fascinating reason. What's funny, though, is that Earth had made extraterrestrial contact long before your ancestors left the planet. So why have you lot forgotten?"

"He's not human." Inara raised an eyebrow at him that said clearly _Mal, you're nuts_.

"I'm not," said the Doctor, before Mal could answer. "I _look _human, but I'm not."

"Then...what are you?"

The Doctor hesitated. "...Let's call me a wanderer for the moment, shall we? No, don't get your knickers in a knot–it's not because I don't want to tell you. It's that I'm not sure it's safe to say, right here and now." He gestured to the symbol. "This tells me a Moksha is about, doing all this. But I know the Mokshar, and they wouldn't do this." His hands carved the air in vague gestures, like he was trying to capture alien ideas to show them. "Their whole belief system was such an integral part of their being–it was _literally_ woven into their biology–and they believed utterly in preserving life and free will, in using their abilities to help and heal and teach the ways of peace, and only turning to war when there was no other way. They hadn't fought a war for millions of years, before...Maybe billions. _This_," he waved again at the lab, "is the antithesis of everything they believed. No Moksha would do this," he repeated. "Not in a million, billion years."

"Times change," said a voice, deep and bell-like. "As I am sure you well know, Time Lord."

All three of them spun around, and Mal felt his jaw sag. Calling the Doctor an alien and hearing him admit it was one thing, but he still _looked_ human. This..._It's a real gorram alien._

It was very tall, more than eight feet, bipedal and slender, with a graceful, angular head–almost birdlike–set atop an impossibly long neck. A crest of feathers rose from the crown of its skull to spill over narrow shoulders. Both its skin and its feathers were iridescent shades of blue, gold and brown, seeming to glow under the lights of the laboratory. It was wearing some kind of robe, though how exactly it fit over the strange body shape Mal wasn't rightly sure.

Mal heard the Doctor suck in a sharp breath. "V-Vharaj?" A shaking hand pulled the spectacles off his face, and he moved around to stand between Mal and Inara, squinting up at the thing as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "Vharaj, is that _you_? You're–you're alive!"

The alien creature tilted its head to the side, strengthening Mal's impression of _bird_. "You know me, Time Lord?"

"I–yes, yes I do. Of course I do. We were...at Arcadia together. I thought you died when it fell. Your ship...I tried to get to it, but so many ships burned that day, and the fleet advancing..." A shudder ran down the man's long body, a reaction Mal knew far too well.

The being gave a little sigh of recognition. "Ah. Doctor. I did not recognize your face; you have regenerated since last we met." The feathers of the crest rippled. "I had heard the rumors, that a single Time Lord survived Gallifrey's destruction. I might have known it would be you."

The Doctor flinched. "Not by choice," he whispered. "Never by..." His hand tightened convulsively on his spectacles, the frames bending perilously under the pressure. His voice was husky when he spoke. "Vharaj–what are you doing here? Are you a prisoner? Are–are you being forced to assist in this–this atrocity?"

Vharaj tilted its–his?–head to the other side. "Come now, Doctor," he said. "You know perfectly well there isn't a power left in this universe that could force a Moksha to its will. This is my work," he continued, gesturing gracefully with a long, slender (and, Mal noticed with a certain sense of urgency, _claw tipped_) hand. "It's really quite brilliant, if I do say so myself." At his gesture, the banks of cylinders closest to Mal became transparent, and Mal, seeing what was in them, jerked back with a stifled curse.

The cylinders were full of Reavers, hanging frozen like statues of unspeakable horror. Mal stared in horror, remembering that there were about a hundred of the things in the room. Inara's face, he saw, had gone still and pale.

"No," said the Doctor softly. "You're not a prisoner. But I had hoped. Vharaj, this is _wrong._ Mind control? Setting monsters on innocents? _Why?_ This violates everything your people believe, everything you _are_."

"_Were_, Doctor," snapped Vharaj, his resonant voice turning harsh. "Everything my people _were_. But they no longer exist, do they, Doctor? Not beyond a handful of refugees scattered across the galaxies. The great, benevolent Mokshar people, reduced to nothing. Your Time War saw to _that_." Alien or not, Mal was sure he didn't imagine the bitterness in the creature's words.

The Doctor's lips tightened into a thin line. "The Mokshar willingly offered their aid against the Daleks, Vharaj. My people didn't even ask. And _you_ served willingly by my side when I commanded the forces at Arcadia."

"And we all know how well _that_ ended, don't we, Doctor?" snarled Vharaj. "Ten thousand ships burning, and the key to the Cruciform's defense falling into Dalek hands. The great and famous Doctor, defeated at last. I had supposed your people wiser than to make _you_ commander of that defense."

The Doctor's eyes turned black with fury, but he made a visible effort to control himself. "What's done is done, Vharaj," he said in a harsh voice. "The War's over, more or less. Time to move on. Which I see you've done. The Daleks weren't enough for you, Vharaj, that you feel a need to make _more_ monsters to unleash on the universe?"

"I believe in justice, Doctor!" The feathers flared in obvious agitation. "And since I cannot have it for my people, then I will seek it on behalf of others. _That_ is the purpose of my work here, Doctor. _Justice_. It's the only thing I have left. Mercy and sacrifice brought my people nothing but destruction."

"But Vharaj, this is _evil_!" cried the Doctor. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by grief, pleading. "The Mokshar are healers, teachers! Not dictators. And _not_ gone. They're still out there. They...still exist."

The alien being's great, glowing eyes narrowed. "Unlike the Time Lords?" he asked softly. "Tell me, Doctor, how does it feel, to be the very last one?"

The Doctor went white. "Don't, Vharaj," he pleaded. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think I do. Tell me, Doctor, who was it who came up with the idea of destroying Gallifrey and the Time Lords to destroy the Daleks? Who made that decision?"

The Doctor's head bowed. "We all made the decision," he whispered. "But the plan was mine."

"And you survived. How...convenient."

The Doctor shut his eyes, and a tear tracked down his cheek. Mal recognized the look on the man's face; he'd seen it before, staring back at him from a mirror, after Serenity Valley. "That's enough," he snapped, moving forward, stepping between the Doctor and the alien. "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, but I know cruel when I see it. Seems to me, alien, you're less interested in justice than you are in pokin' other people's wounds open. And maybe you can explain to me just how settin' Reavers on folk is _justice_."

The alien's features arranged themselves into an expression that might have been a smile. Mal couldn't be sure; reading alien expressions was a whole new area for him. Or, at least, reading alien expressions other than the Doctor's... "Ah, Doctor. I see that, as always, you have managed to collect loyal companions to serve you."

"I ain't servin' anyone," Mal said curtly. "Man's a passenger on my ship, and that makes him crew, temporary-like. And if you want a go at my crew, you answer to me."

"And just who are you, then?"

There was no mistaking the patronizing tone in Vharaj's voice. Mal _hated_ that. "Malcolm Reynolds," he growled. "And in another minute, I'll introduce you to my gun."

The alien's eyes widened. "Malcolm Reynolds? Really? What an amazing thing."

Mal had a sudden, bad feeling. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. But I should think that you, of all people, would realize the purpose here."

"I see an arrogant _huen dahn_ playin' God with people's minds, forcin' 'em to his will. And even God don't do that." _And somewhere,_ Mal thought_, the Shepherd is spinnin' in his grave to hear me say that._ But he meant every word. Maybe he and God weren't on speaking terms these days, but that weren't anything to do with stuff like this.

"Reavers aren't exactly people, Malcolm Reynolds," said Vharaj.

"Maybe they ain't now, but they used to be. And had their minds and souls stole from them by the Alliance. And now you're doin' the same thing all over again, and not just to Reavers." He nodded his head toward the monitors. "Or isn't that a model of an ordinary human's brain chemistry?"

"You are a quick one," purred Vharaj, just as the Doctor had earlier. Mal decided he preferred the Doctor's maddening, elusive arrogance to this–this _thing's_ condescension.

"I generally don't associate willingly with idiots," snapped the Doctor. He was still white as death, but anger had again chased away the pain and sorrow. "And I believe you owe the man a proper explanation. Just what _is_ this great 'work' of yours?"

The alien chuckled. "Oh, Doctor. My old friend. Still galumphing about Time and Space seething with righteous indignation. I know the stories, Doctor. I know your reputation of old." His voice grew cold. "So if you imagine that I'm going to stand here and tell you my plans so you can work out a way to stop me, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Oh, Vharaj." The Doctor's voice was almost pitying now. "You don't know me at all. I don't need you to tell me your plans to stop you. That's just a bonus, makes my life a bit easier, is all. But I will give you a chance, Vharaj. Just one. Stop this. Whatever your reasons for doing this, however just you think the cause might be, _stop it now._ Let me help you find another solution, another way. But if you don't end this evil, _I will end it for you._" In his voice came a trace of the deep, terrifying rage Mal had glimpsed before.

"You always have been arrogant," remarked Vharaj. His voice was steady, but Mal thought he saw a flash of apprehension in the alien's eyes. They were expressive eyes, inhuman or not. "But no matter. Security has already been alerted to your presence and will be here shortly. And just to make certain you aren't going to try anything foolish..." He raised his hand. There were only three fingers on it, Mal noticed, and they seemed ridiculously long and frail against the heavy, gleaming shape of the military grade pistol the alien held.

The Doctor's lip curled contemptuously. "A gun, Vharaj? Really, how disappointing."

"Oh, it isn't for you," said Vharaj coolly. "Bullets wouldn't be much more than an inconvenience to you, and you are more than capable of sacrificing yourself so that others might escape. But as I recall, you are _fiercely_ protective of your companions. And particularly old-fashioned when it comes to females." The barrel of the gun moved to point straight at Inara. "And you won't leave one of them behind." Mal thought he saw fear and horror in the alien's eyes, but alongside it was a steely resolve he did not like.

Terror and fury clogged Mal's throat, but even as he moved he knew he wouldn't be able to get there in time. The Doctor was in the way. He watched Vharaj's finger–long, inhuman, impossible–tighten on the trigger.

"_No!_" shouted the Doctor, and dove forward.

The shot echoed through the huge room, thundered in Mal's ears, seemed to shake the very floor. He saw Inara stagger, and for an awful moment felt his world bend and begin to break. Then he realized she was stumbling under the Doctor's weight as he fell heavily against her, his hand clutched tight to his left shoulder, blood welling between his fingers. But he was conscious, and soon regained his balance. His eyes blazed, his face dead white now with pain and shock, even paler than it had been earlier. "That was unnecessary!" he snarled.

Time seemed to slow. Mal's own pistol, hidden beneath his coat, was in his hand now. He raised it, a low growl of rage lifting from his throat.

"No, don't–" the Doctor began.

Mal was a damn good shot, a fact that, while not necessarily _proud_ of, he'd always found reliable. He aimed for Vharaj's head. A quick, clean skull shot and it was all over. He squeezed the trigger...

But Vharaj, with impossible speed, moved out of the line of fire. Swearing, Mal moved forward, fired again. Again, he missed as the alien dove out of the bullet's path.

A bloody hand closed around his arm. "Don't bother," said the Doctor. "It isn't worth it; he's too fast. And we haven't the time." Hissing in pain, he pulled his other hand–the wounded one–from his coat pocket. In his palm three small spheres glittered.

Mal stared at them, uncomprehending. Then memory flicked a card. "Are those..._Christmas_ ornaments?" Absurdly, he recalled that he hadn't seen a real Christmas ornament in...well, not in a long time.

The Doctor's answering grin was savage and not at all friendly. "Oh yes, but these do _much _more than sparkle nicely on your Christmas tree."

Vharaj was back on his feet and advancing, keening horribly, clawed fingers outstretched. He'd dropped the gun, though. "You cannot escape, Doctor!"

"I can't begin to tell you how often I've heard that line over the centuries," said the Doctor. "And d'you know something? I always do. Catch!" And he tossed the shiny red baubles at the alien. Vharaj dodged instinctively, and the ornaments struck the floor and rolled away among the machines. _"Now_, Inara!" shouted the Doctor.

Inara raised her hand. In it was the Doctor's strange little screwdriver, emitting its blue glow and earsplitting whine. Mal, with a sudden suspicion as to what came next, braced himself. Sure enough, a heartbeat later three separate explosions rocked the room with a deafening roar. Mal staggered under the concussion, but remained upright. Vharaj, not so lucky, was knocked right off his feet and vanished behind a cloud of dust and debris. The explosives were not terribly powerful, but in the relatively confined space of the lab the mess was downright astonishing.

Mal was moving before the flash had even died away. Neither Inara or the Doctor had kept their balance when the explosives went, but were struggling upright. Mal hauled Inara to her feet, trying hard not to give in to the urge to clutch her close and gibber in relief that she was unhurt. Instead, he reached down for the Doctor, and heard the man's sharp gasp of pain. "Your shoulder–" began Mal.

"Is well enough for the moment. I won't bleed to death, I promise." Despite his assurances, blood still seeped between his fingers, and the sleeve of his coat was already dark and wet most the length of his arm. The Doctor eyed it in annoyance. "This coat had better not be ruined. Janis Joplin gave me this coat, you know." He sucked his breath in between his teeth and set his jaw. "Just...let's get out of here, and fast, all right? I want to faint somewhere I'm _not_ going to get locked up."

Alarms were shrieking all around them now–and Vharaj had said security was already on their way down. Mal reached out to haul the Doctor's good arm over his shoulders and found Inara already there.

"You need your hands free," she said, "for shooting, if it comes to that. I've got him." Her flawless face, smudged with soot and sweat, was set, full of courage.

Mal didn't trust himself to do more than nod. If he opened his mouth, he was sure to say something he oughtn't. He made sure Inara would be all right supporting the much-taller Doctor's weight, then turned to lead the way out of the ruined laboratory. If they were very, very lucky, they could slip out a fire exit with all the other panicking folk.

Of course, they _weren't_ lucky. That would have been against some cosmic rule, that a frantic escape attempt would go smooth. They didn't dare go back by way of the elevator, so Mal was forced to turn off into one of the side corridors they'd passed earlier. But everywhere they turned in the bewildering maze, shouts from the gorram security teams forced them in another direction. The Doctor was no help; he'd lapsed into semi-consciousness. Inara was doing her best to keep one hand pressed hard against his shoulder to staunch the bleeding; they had no time to stop for a makeshift bandage. Mal noted that the blood staining the Doctor's hands–and now Inara's–was the wrong color: too pale, more orange red than deep crimson. It was a bit of a shock–it was one thing to _guess_ that the man was an alien and have him say it was so. It was something else entirely to see proof that an otherwise human-looking man wasn't any such thing.

They rounded a corner and Mal spotted with relief an 'Exit' sign glowing serenely over a flight of stairs twenty yards down the hall. Just beyond lay another door–and from beyond that Mal could hear the sounds of yet another security squad. From behind them came the shouts of another team, drawing ever closer.

Mal swore. They'd just run out of options he liked. Maybe a minute before both squads arrived, and without a delay there would be no escape for anyone. "Okay, here's the new plan: 'Nara, you get the Doctor out of here and to Simon, quick as you can. Get yourselves clear. Take _Serenity_ offworld if you have to."

"Mal, _no!_"

"Got no choice left, Inara," Mal said with an unhappy smile. "'Sides, I'm countin' on you to come and rescue me."

"I'm very good at rescues," said the Doctor, weakly. "My specialty."

Inara's eyes blazed. "Malcolm Reynolds, I _won't_–"

It was a terrible thing to do, and Mal knew it. But the shock would stop her arguing and get her moving–and if he was lucky, he wouldn't live to deal with the consequences. Reaching out, he seized Inara's chin and kissed her, hard. "I love you," he growled. "Now _go_!"

For once, it actually worked. Never could tell, with Inara–she was unpredictable as hell. But as he'd hoped, she was too stunned to resist as he gave her a shove toward the stairs, or to stop him as he ran toward the door at the other end of the hall and the security team beyond.

As he ran, Mal realized that he was laughing.

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

**_Wuo duh tien ah:_ Oh my God**

* * *

**Additional Author's Note: Of course, I can't deny I wasn't tempted to use a "traditional" Doctor Who villain--but the fact is, I believe in sticking with canon as much as possible. I felt it would be easier, therefore, to use an original species. Besides, I'm far more interested in exploring the consequences of the Time War than setting up the Daleks or the Cybermen for yet another run. For one thing, there aren't any Cybers left in this Universe--they're all in the parallel one, so far as I or anyone else knows. The Master is, er, not available at this time and until I'm given evidence to the contrary, the Rani is as dead as the rest of the Time Lords. As for the Daleks...well, the Cult of Skaro is awfully busy overseeing the construction of the Empire State Building and were not, alas, available for this engagement. :D I imagine that, somewhere deep in their horrible little souls, they were rather pleased to find that the Art Deco movement suits their look so very well...  
**


	22. Chapter 22: Uneasy

**Author's Note: Expect the next post to be a little longer in coming. Midterms have hit early this semester, alas. :D**

**A note on Time Lord biology: I'm making it up. Beyond the whole two hearts, respiratory bypass, and regeneration thing, there just doesn't seem to be a lot of information about Gallifreyan biology. Even the issue as to whether or not a Time Lord is physically stronger than a human seems iffy. (I choose to think they are, based on the way Eight battered down the door of the morgue.) So, while I know the Doctor can recover from a physical wound in a ridiculously short amount of time, I figure that there are catches to that little quirk...**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "Sometimes, my brilliance astonishes even me." --Fourth Doctor, in "The Invisible Enemy"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Book: Yes, I'd forgotten you're moonlighting as a criminal mastermind now. Got your next heist planned?  
Simon: No. But I'm thinking about growing a big black mustache. I'm a traditionalist. --Simon and Shepherd Book, "War Stories"**

* * *

"There's a time when the Traveler  
Is fated to find  
That insight has turned his gaze  
Behind.  
And the steps taken yesterday  
Will beckon again  
And lead to his weary journey's  
End."  
–Dan Fogelberg, "In the Passage"

The alleyway was dark and narrow, cramped with malodorous refuse, but it was out of sight of the angry anthill that Renier Enterprises. The Doctor suppressed a yelp of pain as he and Inara staggered into a rough brick wall. Inara murmured an apology and eased him down to sit, gasping, against the wall while she checked his shoulder.

"Been a long time since I got shot," he said through gritted teeth, as Inara began tugging loose his cravat and unbuttoning shirt and vest. "A _really_ long time, in fact. Didn't like it then, and it hasn't improved on further acquaintance."

Inara pushed aside the sticky, sodden mass of coat, shirt, and vest for a better look at the wound. "I'm not a medic," she said in a tight voice. "But I've seen enough wounds on _Serenity_ to tell you that this doesn't look too bad, if we can just stop the bleeding."

"Lucky I'm wearing a cravat instead of a necktie, then isn't it? Makes a handy bandage." He tugged at the knot with his good hand, and pulled to loose.

Inara folded the length of cloth into a thick pad, and pressed it against the bullet hole. "Hold that," she ordered, then began tearing a long strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt.

The Doctor hissed in pain, but kept pressure on his shoulder. "Bullet's still in," he said. "It'll have to be dug out; my biology gets a bit funny about foreign objects left floating about. Humans have an advantage, there. You can go around for years with odd bits left inside you, but Time Lords–well, let's just say I don't fancy fever and delirium over a little bit of metal. It just isn't worth it, at my age." And wasn't he feeling that age, just now...

Inara's face was drawn as she tied the makeshift bandage into place. "Your blood..."

He glanced at the bright stains on her hands, too pale and lurid compared to the deep crimson of human blood. "I know."

"Mal was right. You really aren't human."

The Doctor half-smiled. "Got it in one," he said.

She was silent for a long moment. Then, "I'm going to _kill_ him!"

The Doctor blinked, confused, then his brain caught up with what she was referring to. "Ah. Tell me, do you want to kill him for running off to get captured, for having the temerity to snog–sorry, kiss–you, or for picking the worst possible time to tell you how he felt?"

Another silence. Then Inara sighed, and said only, "Yes."

"Heh. Well, I don't blame you. Can't say I don't understand where he's coming from, either, especially the last bit. Got terrible timing in that respect myself. You'd think, as good as I am at talking, I'd have it down, but I'm really quite rubbish at it. At least he said it," he added, a little sadly. "I always seem to leave it so late it never gets said at all."

"I am furious," Inara began, with a visible attempt at dignity, but her temper slipped away from her again, run ragged by fear and stress. "Because he _damn_ well did that on purpose! He _knew_ it would shock me so much I'd do what he told me to–and that's _just_ what I did!"

The Doctor was silent for a moment, allowing Inara to finish fussing with the bandage and refasten the buttons of his shirt, studying her face closely. Any minute, they could be set upon by Renier's security forces. They should get moving. And they would–but not before he'd had his say. They had time–or rather, _he_ did. In his pocket, so to speak. "It seems to me–no, leave that–" he interrupted himself as she started to button up the vest. He continued, "It seems to me, Inara, that whatever his reasons for saying it, he meant it nonetheless."

Now it was Inara's turn to be silent. She would not meet his eyes. "I know," she said finally, her voice soft, still angry. "And that just makes me long to hit him all the more." She caught the expression on his face and added, with a wry smile, "It's complicated." She got to her feet and bent to assist the Doctor.

"Tell me about it," he muttered, gritting his teeth against the agony as he scrambled upright again. "And from what I've seen of your relationship, that's likely the only time he _would_ have said it. The first time, at any rate. It's rather sweet, actually–" He hastily swallowed the rest of his words as he spotted the look on her face. "Sorry."

She put his good arm over her shoulder again; he did not protest. The truth was, while he considered himself pretty good at resisting things like physical coercion (he ought to be, as often as he'd been tortured, mugged, and just generally _thumped_ over the centuries), he really didn't deal all that well with physical pain. Not unless it was immediately necessary that he deal, at least–and by necessary, he meant the fate of a planet or galaxy or a friend. While it _was_ important, at this moment, to remain upright, mobile, and more or less conscious, there was really no need for him to be all manly and stoic about it. That was a human trait he didn't think much of. And when they were relatively safe and he could receive medical attention–well, he fully intended to whine until someone threatened him.

Right now he needed something to distract him from the pain. They were moving too quickly for him to enter a trance and deal with the agony that way. Talk...he needed to talk. He thought about making further remarks on the nature of Mal and Inara's relationship, but quickly decided against it. Inara's fear for Mal was palpable, though she was doing a damned good job keeping it off her face. Something else, then...but his brain was too occupied with the fact _that he'd been shot __**again**_ to come up with something all by its lonesome.

"Start talking," he hissed.

Beneath his arm, Inara gave a small twitch of surprise. "What about?"

"Ask questions. Anything. Or I may just pass out on you and while you seem a sturdy lass I doubt you can haul me all the way back to the ship. _Distract_ me. It isn't hard; I'm easily distracted."

"Oh...all right." They paused at an intersection, where the alley crossed a larger street. It was nearly dark, and this part of town lacked the carnival crowds. Inara peered cautiously out into the street. "That...thing back there. The alien."

"The Moskha Vharaj, yes."

"It–he–called you a..."

"Time Lord. Doesn't look like more than a few casual strollers," he added, nodding at the street. "I think it's safe to move across. There's another alley just over there that might take us in the right direction." And he prayed that his sense of direction–which he admitted to himself wasn't _precisely _reliable–wasn't going to lead them wrong. They moved quickly across the street, both of them striving to look like nothing more than a couple out for a quiet walk. It was getting dark enough to hide the bloodstains, but the Doctor had the feeling he was doing a far better impression of smashed drunk than attentive boyfriend. They both breathed a sigh of relief as narrow alley walls closed around them once more. The Doctor, anticipating the next question, continued on. "Time Lord. 'And what does that mean, Doctor, when you're at home?'" He sighed again, this time in regret and ancient irritation. "In truth, it doesn't mean a lot, these days. Once, if I was feeling charitable toward my people–which wasn't often, mind you–I might have given you a lecture about how the Time Lords were the protectors of the Web of Time, guardians of the timelines, and all that rubbish. Most days, though, I'd have told you they were a lot of prissy, snobby, dusty sticks and I–being none of those things, except occasionally snobbish–wanted nothing to do with them."

"And what about now?"

"Now it doesn't really matter. I'm the only one left, and I'm lucky if I can save a planet these days, let alone do much about protecting whole timelines." And it was _so_ much easier to muck history up, now that the Time Lords weren't around to set things straight. Funny, that. He was starting to get a slight inkling as to the _real_ reason his own people had found him so irritating. Maybe they hadn't been far wrong...

"Only a planet?" A note of amusement colored her voice, and chased away some of the stress that set her face so rigidly.

The Doctor was grateful she hadn't pressed about the whole 'only one left' thing. "Earth, mostly," he said. "And not just because it's my favorite planet. I tell you, that little world attracts trouble like–well, like me, actually. It's a miracle we're both still around..." He caught the expression on her face. "Oh, yes. Earth is still around, still thriving more or less. Your histories are quite incorrect. Right about now, they're repelling yet another alien invasion and expanding further into the stars. Or at least," he added, "that's what _should_ be going on. I'm afraid Time isn't very stable these days–ouch!"

"Sorry. I don't think it's much further to the ship. Another ten minutes, maybe."

"Hah. At least nothing's chasing us. Yet." He glanced over his shoulder, expecting the pursuit to materialize. They didn't, but he wasn't going to hope that meant they _wouldn't_.

She chose to ignore this pessimistic remark. "You speak of time as though it were something...tangible. Like solid ground to walk on." They paused again as the twisting alley brought them to yet another large street. This one was more crowded, but most of the people on it seemed to be in a great hurry to get somewhere else, and paid little mind to the two bedraggled fugitives as they staggered across toward yet another alley. Probably, thought the Doctor wryly, they believed the pair of them were just a couple of drunks. Pity they weren't; he could murder a ginger beer right about now...

"More like a sea, to swim through," he replied, when they were safely through. "About as moody, too. No, that's not really right, either. It's...complex. But 'Time Lord' isn't just a poncy title–it's what I _am_. It's a sense, like sight or touch. To me, Time is far more than a simple ticking off of hours or days or centuries. I see Time like you see your hand in front of your face, hear it like an endless song in my head, taste it like an autumn rain. I can touch Time, move through it in any direction, and Time touches me in return. But it doesn't affect me like it does humans, or other races. In a way, I suppose, you could say I _am_ Time." He thought about this for a moment as they negotiated their way through an ungainly heap of refuse. "Which sounds a bit twee, I know, but as I said: it's complicated."

Inara was silent again, taking in what he'd said. He liked that; she _thought_ about things before she spoke and, thank God, she didn't _pester_. Which was more than he could say of most humans of his acquaintance. He wondered what that said about _him_...

It was a lengthy silence this time. His mind had plenty of time to get back to dwelling on the _bullet hole_ in his _shoulder_. Sometimes, for all it's vast capacity and discipline, his mind could be pathetically human. Came from spending far too much time with the lovable little apes, he supposed. _Stop that_, he ordered it. _It's not like you haven't been injured before, and worse._ It had just been a bloody long time, is all. He was profoundly grateful when Inara broke the silence again, though the question was one he didn't much like.

"Doctor–will that creature–will he try to control Mal's mind, like the others?"

He'd expected the question since Mal had left them, steeled himself to answer it as best he could. It didn't make the answering any easier, though–and Inara was far too shrewd to buy one of his flippant reassurances. Besides, she deserved as honest an answer as he could give. "In all honesty...almost certainly. Will he succeed? I really don't know. That depends on Mal's strength of will, I suppose."

Inara smiled faintly. "Mal is the most stubborn man in the universe."

"Then I imagine he'll be just fine." That was a lie, but he managed to slip it in under the cover of her temporary relief. The technology Vharaj was using was bad enough, but it was backed by a fully trained Mokshar empath. The Doctor himself, with centuries of mental discipline and plenty of practice repelling hostile entities trying to invade his head, might be able to hold the Moksha off for a time, but a human like Mal, with only a human's natural psychic defense (which weren't much, by comparison) stood about as much chance as a snowball in Hell. Mal's strength of will might keep Vharaj from shattering his mind and taking control outright, but the Doctor didn't like to think about the damage the Moksha could do tearing his way into the man's psyche. _Oh, Vharaj. How did you come to this?_

He remembered Vharaj as a dedicated healer and teacher, a caring and deeply moral being. Someone who valued life and peace, fighting only when there was no other way. The Doctor had _admired_ him. Vharaj's steady optimism and hope had kept him going–kept him _alive_–during the siege of Arcadia, and in the horrific aftermath of its fall and the millions dead, he'd grieved the deeper for the Moksha's supposed death. Of all possible fates for a former comrade-in-arms, this was one he'd never imagined.

How many times had he seen this happen, to old friends, to once-great beings? Too often. The face of a childhood friend floated across his mind's eye, schoolmate and oath-brother, madcap and full of mischief. That same face, different with regeneration but with the same soul behind the eyes, eyes mad now–or had they always been mad?–with a driving lust for power and glory and, above all else, _survival_. _I'm so sorry._ He hoped his ancient friend and old enemy had found peace in the death he'd fled for so long. But what about Vharaj? He was nothing like the other. Had the War driven him mad, or the aftermath? Vharaj's bitter words tore at his hearts._ We all know how well that ended, don't we, Doctor? Ten thousand ships burning..._Did Vharaj blame him? He knew he blamed himself, but...

_Oh God. Is it __**me**__? Am __**I**__ the reason for it?_ The Master, Vharaj–and how many others? Had _he_ driven them to it, somehow...?

_Stop being an idiot, Doctor._

Rose's voice–or was it Sarah Jane's? No. Romana's voice, with the same exasperated irritation he'd heard so often during the years they traveled together.

_I have too damn many voices in my head._

"Thank God," breathed Inara, cutting the twisted knot of the Doctor's thoughts. He looked up. Ahead of them, the alley opened onto the spaceport and, more importantly, the bit of the port that held the familiar silvery bulk of _Serenity_. "Come on," she said, readjusting his arm over her shoulders and quickening their pace. The Doctor gritted his teeth as agony surged fresh and hot. Just a little further, he thought. Just a little further and–

Inara came to a dead halt.

"_Mei yong ma duh tse gu yong,_" said the Doctor.

"Oh, damn," said Inara.

Stepping out from where a tower of crates had concealed them from the fugitives' line of vision, between them and _Serenity_, was a squad of eight heavily armed men.

* * *

**Chinese Translation:**

**Mei yong ma duh tse gu yong: Motherless goat of all motherless goats**


	23. Chapter 23: Human Nature

**Author's Note: I know, I know. I blame school. And...the plot bunnies. There's this Pirates one that just won't leave me alone...(And no, I promise it is NOT a Who/Pirates crossover. That would be...silly.)**

** Doctor Quote of the Day: "The Doctor wasn't in the least drunk, having whiled away the duller stretches of Dupre's autobiography by playing games with his brain chemistry to see how fast he could metabolise bourbon: 15.3 seconds after swallowing was his record so far. He was beginning to think, however, that he should abandon this tactic - dealing with Dupre sober was proving tiresome." --Eighth Doctor, "City of the Dead" **

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Mal: Yeah but she had professional... So in my case, it was really... You woulda kissed her, too.  
Zoe: Wash didn't.  
Mal: But she was naked! And all... articulate!  
Wash: Okay! Everybody not talking about sex, in here. Everybody else, elsewhere. --Our Mrs. Reynolds**

* * *

"The human animal is a beautiful and terrible creature, capable of limitless compassion and unfathomable cruelty...All animals understand love and affection, but only man shows the propensity to place himself into the shoes of another lifeform. Losing this capability, among individuals of this species, reduces them below their much heralded position, and readies the climate for the likely fall of man, the fall from grace" –"Sophia," The Cruxshadows

His head pounded something fierce. Felt like a godawful hangover...had he gone and let Jayne get him drunk again? No, hold a minute, that weren't right. He wasn't drunk. Oh, right. Stunner headache. Several times over, probably; he vaguely recalled four or five of the security guards firing all at once.

So. They'd caught him. Which was no kind of surprise. They hadn't killed him, though, which _was_ a mite surprising. But that was good, wasn't it?

_Until they decide to torture you._

Oh. Crap.

Feeling began to return to his limbs, and with it came all manner of unpleasant pins and needles. He almost preferred being shot to being stunned; the recovery was less painful. Though come to think of it, he didn't much care for being shot, either. Speaking of which...He hoped Inara and the Doc had gotten out all right, and weren't tied up somewhere close by. Make him look all manner of stupid if he hadn't bought them time to escape. And there was the little matter of the last thing he'd said to Inara....

He _really_ hoped they'd gotten away. Far, far away. And that his captors would decide he wasn't worth keeping alive. Hell, he'd lay odds that _torture_ would be preferable to what Inara was going to say if he got back.

_But maybe..._

Mal shoved fears and hopes aside. He owed it to his crew to try and get out of here alive, no matter _what_ Inara might have in store for him. There was enough feeling in his arms and legs by now that he figured he might have a shot at, if not freeing himself, at least some serious struggling. He was sitting upright, at least, in a chair or something similar. _Here goes._ Mal strained at the bonds holding his arms bound to the chair's arms–

–and nearly smacked himself in the face as they flew up, unhindered by ropes or restraints of any kind. His arms weren't tied up. Mal moved his legs experimentally. He wasn't tied up at _all._

He filed this under Deeply Suspicious.

With the pressing need to get rid of bonds suddenly unnecessary, Mal focused on his surroundings. The lights were off, but faint light from a street lamp filtered in through blinds on a window behind him. He was in–an office? Sure as hell looked like an office: cheap desk, chair, console. Even a fake plant gathering dust in the corner by the door. An ordinary office like any corporate drone might have, bland and lacking in personality. Why the hell would they stick him in an _office?_

_I'm still unconscious. That has to be it. And I'm having a nightmare about corporate offices. I'll walk out the door, and I'll be wearin' some gorram suit and some idiot'll be going on about pointless drone-work and then I'll wake up screaming. And _then_ I'll be tied up and in some cell underground, like I should be._

It occurred to Malcolm Reynolds that there might just be something skewed about his sense of normalcy.

He stood slowly. He'd been stunned plenty of times in his misspent life, and was painfully aware that no one reacted to stun the same way twice. He could expect anything from vomiting to muscle spasms to a full-on faint. The only thing that happened this time, however, was a protesting throb from his aching head. Easier on his dignity, at least, to say nothing of his chances for immediate escape.

Carefully, ears straining for any kind of unwelcome sound, Mal edged his way around desk and chair toward the light-rimmed rectangle of the office door. He slid one hand down the smooth surface, feeling for the touch panel to open it, while his other hand patted for weapons. His gun belt was gone, as was the holdout pistol and his boot knife. Well, at least _something_ here was normal. His fingers found a slight ridge in the door, and pressed.

It slid open. Unlocked. And there was no one standing guard outside.

Mal's skin crawled. _I don't like this._

But what could he do? Going back into the office, shutting the door, and hiding under the desk just wasn't an option. For one thing, it really wouldn't look too good when his crew showed up to rescue him to find the captain cowering under a piece of furniture. _If_ they came to rescue him. Not that he didn't think they'd try–well, maybe Jayne wouldn't–but whether or not they'd succeed was something else. Security was surely all manner of stirred up by his earlier antics.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickling, Mal edged out of the doorway and into the room beyond. It wasn't a hall, like he'd expected, but another office, this one big and well-lit and expensive. Thick carpet tugged at his boot soles, and he'd lay odds that the desk at the far end was real wood. There was art on the walls, but he didn't take the time to look at it; his attention was focused on the man sitting behind the desk, and the other three arranged in chairs around it. Behind the man at the desk, the alien Vharaj loomed tall and bird-like, great glowing eyes watching Mal intently.

His brain was still sluggish from the stunning, but Mal _knew_ he'd seen the men before. All but one were older men, in their sixties, well-fed and prosperous looking. The younger was probably forty five or so, about a decade older than Mal. He in particular looked naggingly familiar to Mal. He knew that face, but from where? They all had the look of ex-military in haircuts and manner of sitting. _Alliance brass. Ai ya, I'm in trouble now..._

The one behind the desk got to his feet. He was a tall, spare man with iron-grey hair and eyes that matched. He had the look, Mal thought, of a murdering kind of officer–the kind that coolly and deliberately got his men killed for a specific goal. Right now he was smiling, and that sent a chill up Mal's spine.

"Sergeant Reynolds." His smile broadened, showing white, slightly crooked teeth. Mal's brain churned. He _knew_ that smile, though he was almost certain he'd never seen it in person... "Such an honor to finally meet the hero of Serenity Valley in the flesh."

Hero of–? There'd been no heroes there, only a handful of grim and broken survivors. And an Alliance bigwig surely wouldn't call him...

Mal's mind finally kicked into gear, and he remembered where he'd seen that smile before. Where he knew the youngest of the group from. He mentally changed the men's clothes from civvies to the appropriate uniform..._Oh no._

He'd been wrong. The Alliance wasn't behind this twisty little horror at all. It wasn't the Alliance who'd recruited a real gorram alien to play God with the Reavers.

"I must apologize for my security's...enthusiasm," added Oris McKinney, former general-in-command of the Independent forces.. "But I'm afraid we hadn't expected you to turn up in _quite_ such a fashion."

The younger man had been Mal's C.O. at...Hera? Commander Rhineholdt, wasn't it? And the other two had been Browncoat brass as well, though like McKinney Mal had never seen their faces in person, just in various vids that occasionally trickled down to the grunts. He'd never liked them; they were, after all, Authority. And even Browncoat authority, in Mal's considered opinion, hadn't been able to find their asses with two maps and flashlight.

These were the men who, in his even more carefully considered opinion, had lost the Independents the war.

And now he was their, for want of a better word, prisoner. And they were being _nice_ to him.

_I'm in really deep f'n zse, ain't I?_

***

"You will stand down immediately," said the man foremost in the security squad. He hadn't bothered to level his weapon at Inara and the Doctor; he had seven other grunts to do that for him. "You are bound by law for breaking and entering Renier Enterprises."

Inara's shoulders ached from supporting the Doctor's weight. He was skinny, but he was still tall enough to qualify as a big man; there was a lot of solid muscle and bone on that thin frame. She felt the tension in it now, a shift from the tightness of pain to readiness for action. _Rung Tse Fwo Tzoo Bao Yo Wuo Muhn_, _don't let him do anything stupid._

"You must be mistaken, Leftenant," said the Doctor with what, for a man with a bullet hole in his shoulder, sounded like appalling cheerfulness. "The lady and I were just out for a stroll. You must have mistaken us for someone else." Under his breath he muttered, "These aren't the droids you're looking for..."

"Then how do you explain the blood all over you?" demanded the security leader.

"Um...I got mugged? Really, you should do something about that, streets aren't even safe..." The Doctor's voice trailed off, and he smiled weakly. "You're not buying that for a minute, are you?"

"Not so much."

"Well, it was worth a try." The Doctor sighed, then smiled again. "Still, kept you distracted, didn't I? And that worked very well indeed."

The lieutenant's eyebrows snapped together, and he whirled, opening his mouth to issue an order–

–just in time to be thrown off his feet as a shotgun blast tore full into his chest. He was armored, so the shot wasn't fatal. The force was incredible, however, and he fell heavily to the concrete, battered into unconsciousness.

"_Shift_!" snarled the Doctor, as chaos and bullets erupted around them. Inara was already moving, maneuvering them both toward the cover of the stacked crates. Jayne was already there, laying down covering fire and swearing.

"...gorram armor, can't even get a gorram killin' shot, 'less I get lucky and hit 'em between the gorram eyes..." His pistol clicked, and he hunched back down behind the crates to reload. He ran an eye over Inara and the Doctor. "What the hell happened to him?" he demanded. "And where's Mal?"

"He got shot," said Inara, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the battle. "And Mal got captured."

"Typical," muttered Jayne.

"Who's doing the shooting?" she asked, flinching a little as a ricochet pinged off a crate near her head.

"Zoe, mostly, though we gave the doc and Kaylee guns. No one wanted to let River have one, for some reason. 'Sides, she's busy with the ship."

"I'd have thought they'd take care of you first thing," panted the Doctor, also wincing as shots whizzed around them. "Since they were waiting for us."

"Oh, they tried," Jayne said with a grin. "This ain't the first group. We sent the first one off to the hospital fifteen minutes ago. Figured then that things had gone south for y'all, and set up an ambush."

"Why didn't you take off?" Inara clawed her hair out of her face. She knew she looked a mess, covered in blood and dust. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to care right this minute.

"Zoe wouldn't. And anyway, _Serenity's_ landlocked. Ain't no way we're gettin' outta here." Jayne levered himself up again and squeezed off several more shots. "And this bunch probably already radioed for backup. You pissed someone off almighty good; we're gonna have a gorram army here any minute."

"We have to rescue Mal." Inara struggled to make her voice sound calm. Though the eruption of more violence had sent a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through her, she knew she was reaching the end of her reserves, worn down by fear and exhaustion and the all-consuming worry for Mal's safety.

"Sure," Jayne replied evenly. "You got a way to break a landlock, and we might have a shot. Otherwise, we're humped."

A year ago, Inara reflected, Jayne would have suggested they leave Mal to rot. Even six months ago, he might have. But something had changed in the big mercenary after Miranda. He'd always feared Mal, for reasons Inara wasn't entirely certain of, but it hadn't stopped him from treating Mal with contempt, most of the time. Somehow the crisis over the murdered planet had engendered a very real respect that took the place of the fear, and the contempt had become less barbed.

"I can get us out of here," said the Doctor. "Just get me back on board your ship."

Jayne paused in his firing to squint skeptically at the wounded man. The Doctor, white-faced and drawn, returned his gaze steadily. After a moment the mercenary grunted. "All right." He pulled a comm from his belt and thumbed it on. "Zoe. Got 'Nara and the Doctor, and we're headin' back into the ship. Lay down some cover-fire."

"_Shuh muh,_" came the crackling reply. "Give it ten seconds, then move."

Jayne replaced the comm, fired a few more times with his usual worrying enthusiasm, then handed his weapon off to Inara and bent down to haul the Doctor up. "Hope you can run, Doc," he said. "'Cause if I carry you 'cross my shoulders you'll just be a bigger target."

"I can run," gasped the Doctor. "Just move. We haven't much time."

Inara wouldn't have believed she could still move fast–but flying bullets were a wonderful incentive. She fired the pistol Jayne had handed her a few times, though she did so without aiming at anyone in particular. She'd killed her share of Reavers in Mr. Universe's base, but that, to her mind, was an entirely different thing from shooting with deliberate aim at a human being.

_Serenity_ seemed miles off, impossible safety across an impassible field of battle. But Zoe knew her job, and the steady firing from near the transport kept the security guards from taking careful aim at the three figures darting across the open space of the docking port.

At last they pounded, breathless, up _Serenity's_ ramp, followed by Zoe, Kaylee, and Simon–lugging a pistol in one hand and his medical kit in the other–a moment later. As soon as they were all in Jayne thumped the controls to shut the cargo hold doors, and the sound of bullets faded to a futile thump on the ship's thick hull.

"Won't hold 'em forever," grunted Jayne. "And I'm pretty sure I saw the backup arrivin' as we came in."

Zoe's dark face was streaked with sweat, and she cradled her swollen abdomen, her weapon dangling from the other hand. "I know." She glanced over the panting group. "Cap'n get himself caught?" she asked wearily.

Inara nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Zoe sighed. "Typical." She eyed the Doctor, ignoring Kaylee's eruption of worried protests at this information. "Simon, wounded."

Simon, who seemed lost in a dazed fog, still holding his gun like it was grafted to his hand, shook himself. "Of course." He moved toward the Doctor, then stopped, a strange expression coming over his face.

"Still trapped." River's voice floated down from the catwalk. "Landlock won't come undone."

"This is a wonderful _gwai ma jeow_," Zoe growled. "Won't take them long to bring in somethin' that can cut through those doors."

Simon, Inara noticed, was still staring at the Doctor. The Doctor, hanging from Jayne's shoulder, accepted this with remarkable patience, waiting, she supposed, for the young surgeon to find his voice.

"What happened?" Zoe asked, turning to Inara.

Inara hesitated, wondering where to start, exactly. "It got...complicated," she said at last, lamely.

"His blood is the wrong color!" Simon finally blurted.

"Is it?" The sarcasm in the Doctor's voice was mild and, perhaps, not unjustified.

Everyone's attention turned to the Doctor.

Inara sighed. There really wasn't a good way to say it. "He's not human," she said.

Everyone's attention turned to her. The sound of thumping from outside intensified.

"He's not–" Kaylee began.

"We haven't got time," snapped the Doctor. "No, I'm not human, but now really isn't the time for lengthy explanations and demonstrations of sanity. We need to get out of here, _now_. Your captain is in very serious trouble, not to mention the rest of society."

"You can't undo the net," said River, appearing beside him. "Not even the Trickster God can undo a deadlock."

The Doctor cocked an eye at her, but said nothing.

"Time to open the box of tricks," she added.

Now everyone stared at _her_. Zoe's expression was grim. "We can't take the ship, and there's no way we're gonna slip out of here unnoticed," she said. "We're trapped."

"We can take my ship," said the Doctor.

"But...his blood..." Simon said weakly. Kaylee patted his arm.

"Worry 'bout it later," she said, sympathetically, though she eyed the Doctor with a new uneasiness.

"What ship?" demanded Jayne, ever practical. "I ain't seen any other ship."

A faint squealing sound erupted from outside.

The Doctor, with what appeared a tremendous effort, straightened and stepped away from Jayne's supporting shoulder, reaching up with his good hand to pull a chain from under his shirt collar. Moving unsteadily, he crossed to the tall blue box he'd brought on board and, hand shaking, unlocked the door with the key dangling from the chain's end, and pushed it open. "Get in," he said. "Vharaj may have landlocked your ship, but there's not a lot he can do about mine."

"That ain't no ship," protested Jayne.

"It is a mite small," Zoe added with a faint, skeptical smile.

"Appearances can be deceiving." His tone of voice was growing ragged, worn, Inara supposed, to the very edge of patience.

"Just _do it_," she snarled, out of patience herself. "The longer we wait, the worse Mal's situation is going to get!"

Zoe held her eyes for a long moment, understanding passing between them, and without another word stepped inside the Doctor's blue box. A moment later, she backed out again, an expression of shock rarely seen on the stoic woman writ all over her face. "_Wu buh shin wo dah yan jing_! That ain't possible!"

"It is, though not so much any more," said the Doctor. "And though I can't claim that I ever get tired of the reaction, we _haven't got time._ Yes, the police box isn't that big on the outside, I know. It's very technical, and very much beyond anyone here's grasp, except mine. Now _get in._" And he placed his good hand at the small of Zoe's back and propelled her back through the door, following immediately behind her. River, an odd dreamy smile on her face, glided after them and Simon, with a strangled protest, darted after his sister–which meant that Kaylee went, too. Inara was left outside with Jayne. After a moment spent studying the box suspiciously, Jayne shrugged and ducked through the doors.

Inara could imagine Mal's remarks on abandoning _Serenity_, were he here. Her heart ached; she loved the ship as much as he did. But he would go. As much as he loved the battered old transport, he loved the people on her even more. She could do no less.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the doors of the Doctor's strange blue box.


	24. Chapter 24: Conviction

**A/N: Um...I haven't got anything really profound to say. Just a small squee! at the fact that the Fifth Doctor is back! Peter Davison will be reprising his role opposite David Tennant in the Children in Need Special on Nov 19th. Alas, that I don't live in Britain...**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "Oh, those are my subconscious thoughts. I shouldn't listen to them too hard if I were you; I'm not all that proud of some of them." --The Third Doctor, "Time Monster"**

** Firefly Quote of the Day: **

Z**oe: You sanguine about the kind of reception we're up to receive on an Alliance ship, Cap?  
Mal: Absolutely. What's "sanguine" mean?  
Zoe: "Sanguine." Hopeful. Plus, point of interest, it also means "bloody."  
Mal: Well, that pretty much covers all the options, don't it? --"Safe"**

* * *

"This is the moment of truth  
At the point of no return  
Place faith in your convictions  
As the boundaries start to blur..."  
–The Cruxshadows, "Eye of the Storm"

There was a steaming mug of coffee on the desk in front of him. _Real_ coffee, too, not the fake _luh suh_ that was all he could afford. He hadn't had real coffee in...well, actually, he wasn't real sure he'd _ever_ had real coffee. Not like this stuff, anyway. His nostrils twitched at the rich smell, but his stomach was a twisted knot of snakes. They watched him, the four men, with an air of expectation, Vharaj with–he couldn't be sure, but he was pretty near certain there was a smugness on the alien's pointy face.

"Is your coffee all right, Sergeant?"

Mal reached out and wrapped his hands around the ceramic, letting the heat warm his fingers. His hands were cold, and it wasn't from the stun. They wanted something from him. That much was obvious. It explained why they were playing nice instead of breaking out the thumbscrews and nerve-drugs. "'S fine," he said, pretending to take a sip and getting a scalded upper lip for his troubles. "And it's not 'sergeant' anymore," he added, eyes watering slightly. "War's over."

"For some of us," said former-General McKinney, "the war will never be over."

_I've had this conversation before. Where...oh, right. That dumbass Alliance twerp who hauled us all in over the Reaver-hit ship. God, that feels like a long time ago._ Less than two years, though.

"So long as the Alliance stands, and is free to commit atrocities on the people, the war will not end." That was Rhineholdt. Mal squinted at the man, recalling a number of nicknames (some invented by himself) applied to the man. He'd hadn't been the worst C.O. Mal had ever dealt with, but he came damned close. Rhineholdt had been a gorram fanatic, the kind that made someone like Mal Reynolds–who was passionately devoted to the Independent cause, but not fanatic–nervous. _And how many platinum would you lay down that the whole Reaver thing is__**his**__ brainchild?_ Hah. No bet.

"Atrocities?" Mal leaned back in his chair, still cradling the mug. Kind of them to just hand him a weapon like that... "You mean, like what just happened to the folk on Three Hills? That kinda atrocity?"

And to his surprise, Rhineholdt actually looked away. _Okay, then–maybe the fanaticism only goes so far._ But McKinney, now, he didn't look even a mite upset. _His idea, then. Great._ "Necessary sacrifices," he said, and in his eyes Mal saw the true, worrying fire of a genuine fanatic. He'd lost none of the shine to his insanity, as Rhineholdt had.

He couldn't ignore the words, though. "_Necessary_ sacrifices?" he repeated incredulously. "Where in all the hells d'you get off callin' an entire settlement–_three_ settlements!–of folk a _necessary sacrifice_? They weren't doin' nothin' but tryin' to scrape out a living on that dirtball!"

"The army must be tested," said Vharaj smoothly and without, to Mal's ear, any kind of concern. "To ensure that it can be controlled. If we were to loose it on the Alliance and the creatures slipped free of control–well, there would be far more than military casualties. You wouldn't want them rampaging freely, would you?"

"What, so you'll turn 'em loose on civilian casualties first? Seems t'me, bird-man, that there's a big gorram hole in that logic."

"They will not be missed. Attacks occur in this part of space all the time."

This was so patently horrible–and worse, not without truth–that Mal couldn't think of a reply scathing enough. He glared instead, though the alien appeared not at all bothered by this. "And you came after me and my crew because we saw too much, is that it?" he demanded finally.

McKinney steepled his fingers and gave Mal a cool smile that, he supposed, was supposed to make him feel more at ease. Instead, his fingers clenched more tightly around the coffee mug. "At first, yes," said the ex-general. "We had no idea who had compromised the experiment. Indeed, we believed initially it was simply the settlers, but then traces of a ship trail were found...We did not know who you were until you broke into our facilities and spoke with Vharaj."

Mal raised his eyebrows. "And just what the hell has my identity got to do with the price of tea in Londinium?"

"Why, Sergeant Reynolds–you're a hero. You're the decorated soldier of Serenity Valley, the man largely responsible for holding the valley for such a long time, and then keeping as many survivors as you could alive for six weeks after we pulled out."

Mal's jaw ached, he was grinding his teeth together so hard. This man had not been there, in the mud and the blood and the decay. He hadn't heard the screams and whimpers of those dying from terrible wounds and gangrene, hadn't listened to the begging of those dying slow from starvation and exposure. He hadn't seen Alliance soldiers–who were as stranded as the browncoats–sharing what little rations they had with their former enemies. He hadn't witnessed browncoat soldiers–most of whom would have merrily slit the throats of any purplebelly a short time before–trying to keep wounded Alliance soldiers from freezing to death, giving them their own coats in a futile attempt to stave off the pitiless elements.

Had Zoe been there, she'd have recognized the danger signals. Mal was, usually, a fairly volatile man. He blew hot and cold, losing his temper and patience one moment only to be laughing and joking the next. But very, very rarely he would go still, and cold, and quiet. It was then that death sat in his hands, and God help the man or woman who brought him to that point. Jayne had come within a hair's breadth of that death twice, the first time on Ariel after selling out Simon and River, the second when he'd been stupid enough to throw Serenity Valley in Mal's face. Zoe had warned him to walk away, and he'd been wise enough–or, rather, angry enough–to do as she said, before Mal tore him apart with his bare hands. McKinney now stood on that same line, and there was no Zoe here to give him a chance to walk away with head still intact.

"And, of course," continued McKinney, apparently oblivious to the danger, "your recent actions in the Miranda incident have been an inspiration to many."

Ohhh, he really was a dumb bunny, wasn't he? If there was another episode of Mal's life that might trigger the same darkness, it was Miranda. Mal's knuckles showed bone-yellow around the mug. In another minute, he'd launch himself across the desk at the man.

But there was another part of Mal, something even colder than the rage. The rage belonged to the soldier, to the man of honor who found the injustices of this 'verse near intolerable. The thing that lay beyond belonged to the killer. The quiet one, the one who stayed alive in the face of impossible odds. The one who watched, and listened, and made the hard decisions.

And the patient killer said, wait. Not yet. Let's find out what it is they want, first.

"I get the feelin'," Mal said slowly, "that there's something you gentlemen want from me."

The other three men looked at McKinney, who was looking pleased. But Vharaj–so far as Mal could interpret expression on that strange face–looked suddenly wary. Had he caught the edge in Mal's voice? Mal's muscles tensed, but the alien said nothing.

"You are quite right, Sergeant," said McKinney. "As I said: you are a hero. You're just what we need."

Oh, no, said soldier-Mal. I recognize that light in his eyes. It's the "We Want You To Volunteer, Boy!" look. And the first thing a good soldier learned was that you never, ever volunteered for _anything_. Not if you wanted to live to see your dear old ma again.

"We need...a rallying point," the former general continued. "Someone to inspire support for the Independent cause. You are such a man, Malcolm Reynolds."

And captain-Mal said: And doesn't he see the great, huge, gorram_Reaver-shaped hole_ in that logic?

No, he didn't. After all, there was the light of fanaticism in those eyes as well. "You want me to–what? Lead your army of monsters?" He didn't bother to hide the scorn. "You really expect me to do that?"

"You've done it once already, Sergeant Reynolds," said McKinney smoothly. "When you led the Reavers straight into the Alliance fleet."

_Oh...shit._ Mal felt as though he'd been hurled into an icy river, leaving him breathless and gasping at the shock of it. It was true. He wished to God and Buddha and anyone else that it wasn't. He would never escape the nightmares, the terrible guilt of what he'd done that day–but it _had_ been necessary. There had been no other way to get _Serenity_ past the fleet waiting in ambush, no other way to get the truth of Miranda out. _You can't stop the signal._ And, before the actual battle ensued, he had thought it a kind of justice. Which it was, in a horrible kind of way–but he'd known as they fled through that awful slaughter towards the planet's surface that the men on those ships did not deserve such a death. Ultimately, it had cost Wash his life. But it had been necessary...and Mal was not sure he would ever forgive himself for deciding it was so.

McKinney was watching him, damn him. "You see my point, Sergeant?"

"It's_Captain_," Mal growled. "And frankly, no, I don't. That was–that was different." Lame, lame, _lame_. It hadn't been different, had it? Not really...

_But it __**is**__ different. You did not turn the Reavers loose on civilians who had __**no way**__ to defend themselves from such things,_ said the patient killer. _You turned them loose on soldiers, on fighters. And they did __**not**__ all die up there. Not by a long shot._

"Was it?" McKinney waved a hand, dismissing the lives lost. "I fail to see how. War is war, Sergeant. Terrible things happen. And surely you agree that the Alliance is an evil that must be wiped from this 'verse?"

_Did_he agree? Not with their methods, that was for damn sure. But...get rid of the Alliance? Wasn't that one of his fondest dreams? The 'verse would be a better off without them stickin' their nose into folks business–or refusing to, even if they were needed. And yet...

Truth of the matter was, the Independents losing the war hadn't changed much on the border worlds. Life went on more or less the same, only with a distant government making itself inconvenient from time to time. Fact was, border-dwellers still more or less ran their little moons and planets much as they always had. Maybe corruption had increased some, but not much more than it always had. The government was, by and large, just too distant from the Rim to be a genuine tyrant. It was all too big, too complex, too _much_. The Alliance couldn't regulate the border worlds as they'd originally planned; it was impossible.

The fact was, the Alliance wasn't the big bad wolf that a much-younger and much-stupider Malcolm Reynolds had believed it was when he'd signed up with the Browncoats. The ferocity and devastation of the war had caused nearly as much damage on the Alliance side as it had on the Independents'; they weren't too interested in repeating the process, and couldn't afford it anyway.

There were a lot of things he hated about the Alliance. He hated the secrets, the corruption in the military and police forces. He hated the fact that they'd taken a bright star like River Tam and shattered her mind, just because they could. He _loathed_ them for Miranda, and the Reavers.

But that wasn't the entire Alliance. There were plenty of ordinary folk–even soldiers, and cops, and government paper-pushers–who had absolutely nothing to do with things like Miranda. Who had never known anything about it. Who were as horrified as Mal and his crew had been at the truth but who, like everyone else, weren't really sure what to do about it. If there was one thing he had learned since the war's end, it was that folk were folk. And folk were basically stupid, blind, and mostly interested only in having today be just like yesterday. They didn't like change. They didn't like upheaval. They wanted _stability_. More than justice, more than that gorram elusive thing called 'freedom.' And the Alliance, big and bad and uncaring, provided something close enough to stability. If war tore the 'verse apart again, there'd be no room for a man like Mal and his crew to continue their lives. Sides would have to be chosen, lines would have to be drawn. And...he didn't want that. He would continue to defy the Alliance until the end of his days–but he realized, now, that he was content with small justices. Keeping River Tam and her brother free and clear of amoral Alliance scientists was enough. Thumbing his nose by smuggling and thieving was enough. And maybe, once in a while, taking the opportunity to shake things up a bit, make folk pay attention to the idiots running things, so that something like Miranda would never happen again...that was enough.

He raised his eyes to McKinney's and saw the smugness there. The man actually thought he was going to accept. But then–he didn't know Mal, did he? All he had was a file on the fiery Sergeant Reynolds, not so much on the bloody-minded stubborn Captain Reynolds, who had more important things to worry about than some gorram Cause. Especially if that gorram Cause involved using Reavers in any way that did not involve just putting the poor monsters out of their misery.

Mal got to his feet, shifted his grip on the coffee mug, and leaned forward. The four Browncoats looked eager. "Go. To. _Hell_," he snarled, and flung the scalding contents of his mug full into McKinney's face.

* * *

The room that stretched around her was huge, easily as large as_Serenity's_ cargo hold. Inara stood just inside the doors of the Doctor's ship and stared, caught between wonder and a small, primitive desire to flee whimpering from the impossible thing. 

It looked almost...organic. Walls curved up overhead into a half-sphere, glowing in shades of green-bronze. Octagonal panels marched in rows across them, shedding light into the room. Huge, coral-like pillars seemed to grow seamlessly into the curved ceiling overhead, dripping cables and wires like they were vines. She glanced down. The grating beneath her feet was absurdly prosaic–an ordinary metal grate, slightly rusty and stained in places. Below that, however...she swallowed. It was difficult to make out what lay under the grate. One moment it seemed a reflection of the room above, making a whole sphere. Then it seemed to be a void of green and gold light, glimmering dimly. Then it appeared to be vast machinery, stretching into impossible distance. She wrenched her eyes upwards, feeling a little dizzy.

In the center was a great pulsing column, glowing with blue-green light, cradled by a mushroom-shaped console bristling with the most astonishing collection of hodge-podge controls. Many of them seemed to have been cobbled together out of junk and odd bits; she swore she spotted a chess-piece serving as a lever knob. The Doctor stood–or, rather, sagged–at the console, fiddling with the controls and looking pale as death. Zoe had seated herself on a bench covered with battered, taped upholstery, her features set in the non-expression Inara had come to recognize as flabbergasted-to-the-point-of-speechlessness. It was not a look that often graced her face. Beside her, knees tucked up under her chin, sat River, looking as blithely unconcerned as only River could. Kaylee stood opposite the Doctor at the console, studying it in rapt fascination. Jayne still stood near the doors, not far from Inara and Simon, clutching the railing set around the metal grating as though it were a lifeline.

"This is impossible," breathed Simon. "It's..."

"Bigger on the inside," said the Doctor, in the tone of a man who has seen this particular reaction a thousand times.

"But...it's impossible!"

Inara prodded Simon in the shoulder. "Clearly it _is_ possible, Simon, since you're standing in it. But I admit, it _is_ a little...startling."

Across the room the Doctor beamed at her, the bright smile momentarily diffusing the lines of pain on his face.

"Ain't natural," muttered Jayne.

"Dimensional displacement," the Doctor said, and flipped several switches as Simon and Inara moved toward the console. Behind them, the doors swung shut on their own, closing with a soft click. The Doctor continued fiddling with the controls, but there was a greyish tinge to his pallor now, and sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. Inara noticed a trickle of fresh blood dripping steadily from the fingers of his left hand. Beside her, Simon stiffened, and took several steps toward the wounded man.

The Doctor warded him off with his good hand. "Not–not yet. Got to get us out here first. You might want to...hang on to something." He tugged a lever without giving anyone time to comply, and the entire room shuddered violently. Inara clutched at Simon as her balance wavered. He grabbed at the rail, only just managing to keep the both of them from falling. A strange, wheezing wail filled the air, and the glowing column began to pulse rhythmically.

Somehow, the Doctor kept his feet, though by rights he should have collapsed even before the room jumped sideways. "We should be safe for now," he said. "I've moved us into the–"

River let out a piercing shriek then, and clutched her head. She slid from the bench to curl up on the grating, still crying out as though in terrible pain. Simon bolted to his sister, but she flinched away from any attempts to touch her.

The Doctor spoke sharply in a language Inara did not recognize, though from the tone she guessed it was not polite. He let go of the console, clearly intending to reach for River, but swayed and folded up like a collapsing bridge, the last of his strength spent.

Kaylee was at Simon's side, trying to soothe her friend. "What's wrong with her?" she cried.

"It's the Vortex," gasped the Doctor. He tried to pull himself upright again, failed, and fell back, chest heaving. "Her mind must be wide open to it. Dammit, I should have realized...She can't remain in here. Jayne, Zoe–you have to get her to the Zero Room." He closed his eyes for a moment, lips moving as though recalling something from memory. He opened them again and said, "Out the door over there, left down the corridor, left again down the stairs, second door on the right."

"There's_more_ to this place?" Jayne asked incredulously.

The Doctor reached out to gently thump the console column next to him with a fist. "And _please_ cooperate, old girl," he said, apparently addressing the machinery. "I like River, and so do you."

Inara could not be certain, but she would have sworn the pulsing light of the great column flickered, just for a moment.

"Get moving," ordered the Doctor sharply. "River hasn't got much time before the Vortex shatters her mind. The TARDIS will see to it you don't get lost."

Jayne gathered River up in his arms without further argument and bolted through a door Inara was sure hadn't been there a moment before. Zoe followed close behind.

Simon stood, torn between worry for his sister and the very clear medical emergency before him. Kaylee put a hand on his arm. "I'll go help 'em," she said. "You see to the Doctor first. She'll be okay." She didn't sound very convincing, but Simon gave her a grateful look anyway.

Once she was gone the Doctor said, "I think I can help her, but if I can't then she can stay in the Zero Room until we rematerialize. Nothing can touch her there. But I shan't be able to do anything until we get the damn bullet out of my shoulder."

Simon nodded. "Have you got a medbay?"

"Somewhere," replied the Doctor with a wry half-smile. "But I'm afraid I misplaced it a few years ago, along with the swimming pool and a couple of spare bedrooms. I shouldn't worry too much if I were you; you wouldn't be able to make sense of most of the equipment, anyway. Right here will be fine."

"But–"

"Listen, boy!" snapped the Doctor, sounding suddenly like a crotchety old man. "Don't fuss about the facilities. You're about to get a crash course in xenobiology. I'm not going to be able to stay conscious much longer, and if you don't pay _extremely_close attention, then you could very well kill me."

Simon gulped, looked briefly panicked, then nodded resolutely.

"All right. This won't be hard. Just dig the bullet out. Don't bother with stitches or bandages. Do _not_ freak out about my pulse–I have two hearts."

Simon's eyebrows shot skyward.

"Don't worry about my body temperature, either," the Doctor added. "The frost will be perfectly normal."

"Frost?" said Inara faintly.

"Oh, and do _not_ under _any_ circumstances attempt to give me anesthetics, painkillers, or drugs of any kind. Not even an aspirin. _Especially_ not an aspirin. I just got used to this face; I don't want to change it again. Is that _very_ clear?"

Simon nodded again, clearly as puzzled as Inara by the remark about the face.

The Doctor's face softened into a crooked smile. "Good. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to pass out. Please hold all questions, comments, and accusations 'til I'm awake again. I'll be happy to confuse you then."

His head thudded to the floor.

Simon shot Inara a look, mostly fascinated but with a healthy shot of worry and near-panic thrown in. She tried to look encouraging. Then the young doctor shrugged, opened his medical kit, and pulled out a pair of scissors.

The Doctor's head lifted again. "And don't you even _think_ about cutting up my coat!" he growled. Simon jumped sideways. "I_love_ this coat. And leave the suit jacket alone, too." With some effort he sat up again, and between the three of them they managed to wrestle him out of coat and jacket. By the end of it, the Doctor had slipped into genuine unconsciousness.

Inara was long accustomed to assisting Simon–or Mal or Zoe, before Simon signed on–in patching up the various wounds _Serenity's_ crew collected like badges. She did so now without comment, assisting Simon in cutting away the bloody mess of vest and dress shirt and t-shirt beneath. The wound was a dark, ugly hole in the Doctor's shoulder, the streaks of orangish blood vividly alien against the pale skin of his chest. Without its usual vivid animation, the lines carved into the Doctor's face by experience, by pain, by sorrow, were harsh and bitter. In repose, Inara thought, the truth was self evident: for all its human shape, there was something frighteningly alien in those sharp features, something ancient and unknown.

"Hold his shoulder flat," Simon ordered.

Inara reached out to obey, and nearly recoiled in shock. The Doctor's skin was icy beneath her touch, cold enough to numb her fingertips. Tiny wisps of steam curled up where her human-warm skin met his. Simon, catching her gasp of surprise, reached out to touch the center of the unconscious man's chest.

"_Buh kuh nuhn_," he breathed, then shook himself. "But apparently not." He reached for probe and forceps, and turned his attention to the tricky, delicate task of extracting the bullet from the muscle without causing further tissue damage.

It took some time. Inara's fingers swiftly moved past the numb stage and into throbbing pain from the cold radiating from the Doctor's body. His hair was no longer brown, but white-rimed with frost. A thin stream of blood trickled from the wound as Simon worked, freezing into crazy patterns of dark ochre as it made its way down the Doctor's chest and side. At last Simon let out a soft huff of triumph, and pulled his forceps free, the squat, irregular shape of the bullet clenched between its arms. As they watched, the ugly little wound frosted over, covered as completely as if with a bandage.

"Absolutely incredible," Simon said. He reached for his stethoscope. "My God," he said after a moment, moving the device of the Doctor's chest. The Doctor did not appear to be breathing at all, but since Simon looked unconcerned Inara chose not to point this out. "He really does have two hearts!" He pushed the instrument at Inara. "Listen!"

She took the stethoscope from him and slipped it on, then listened, a little awed, to the strange four-four time of a double pulse. It seemed very slow, the thudding of the Time Lord's hearts like deep, steady drums.

Simon's worry and fear had momentarily vanished in the thrill of discovery. "I wonder if the temperature drop is voluntary. It's almost like a coma. And the composition of his blood..."

Inara tried not to smile. Simon Tam was a brilliantly gifted surgeon, but he really had no tact. Mal always said he had the bedside manner of a dockside sawbones–which meant, presumably, that he didn't _have_ one. "You could just dissect him while he's unconscious," she suggested dryly.

Simon blinked at her for a moment, then blushed. "I–I–River! I should go check on River!" He fled.

Inara leaned back on the console, feeling the weariness seep back into her bones. With it came the gnawing fear for Mal, and the anger. How would they rescue him? Was he even still alive? What would Vharaj do to him? Her imagination supplied a number of options, each one more graphic than the last.

She had no idea how long she sat there, trying not to think. It couldn't have been more than half an hour. Probably it was less; her sense of time was skewed at the moment. Beside her on the floor, the Doctor remained still and winter-cold. All around her was the sound of the ship, a strange sound that seemed to come from something alive rather than from engines or machinery. The room was warm, the green-gold light soothing.

A soft cough startled her from her thoughts. She looked down in time to see the Doctor open his eyes and sit up. "There," he said, reaching up to ruffle the frost from his hair. "Bit slapdash, but it'll do until I've got time to go into a proper trance." Under Inara's disbelieving gaze, the white patch of ice marking where he'd been shot melted away as his body warmed, revealing a reddish scar in place of the gaping hole that had been there only a short time before.

He shifted his shoulder experimentally, and winced. "Still hurts like the devil," he remarked. "And I expect it'll be black and blue by morning. But it's better than bleeding to death, I suppose." Then he stopped and blinked down at himself, apparently only now realizing that he'd been stripped to the waist. He began to blush furiously. "Er–"

Wordlessly, Inara held the long brown coat out to him. The Doctor clutched at it like a life preserver, his ears a brilliant shade of red. "Please excuse me," he mumbled, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. He held the coat in front of him like a shy virgin caught in her underwear. "I, uh, I think I'd better go clean up." He hesitate. "You should probably go join the others in the Zero Room," he added. "It _should_ still be in the same place. I–I'll be along as soon as I've, er, changed." Then, without waiting for a reply, he too fled.

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

**_Buh kuh nuhn_****: Impossible **


	25. Chapter 25: Garden of Memories

A/N: Not much to say today, other than enjoy!

Doctor Quote of the Day: "You know the very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common. They don't alter their views to fit the facts, they alter the facts to fit their views, which can be uncomfortable if you happen to be one of the facts that needs altering." --Fourth Doctor, "The Face of Evil"

Firefly Quote of the Day:

Mal: Well, look at this! Appears we got here just in the nick of time. What does that make us?  
Zoe: Big damn heroes, sir. --"Safe"

* * *

"A million roads, a million fears  
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty  
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,  
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time  
But if there was a single truth, a single light  
A single thought, a singular touch of grace  
Then following this single point , this single flame,  
The single haunted memory of your face..."  
–Sting, "A Thousand Years" 

River had quieted as soon as they brought her through the door, but she still lay curled up in a ball in the center of the floor. Zoe watched Kaylee stroke the girl's hair and tried not to think hard on the fact that the whole gorram 'verse had just gotten extremely weird. On some level, she wasn't particularly surprised that the Doctor was not, after all, human. It surely explained why she couldn't read the man...It surprised her a little, though, that she still thought of him _as_ a man. But that's what he looked like, and, for the most part, acted like.

This room bothered her some. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, but there was an oddness to it that set her teeth on edge. It looked similar to the big room they'd first entered, and the corridors she and Jayne and Kaylee had raced down with River: greens and golds and a faintly organic look. Thing was, though, it felt..._silent_, in a way no room she'd been in during her thirty-four years ever had. It was as though nothing, solid or intangible, could get in. In a way, it was kind of peaceful. In another way, it was kind of bothersome.

She felt a brief twinge of pain in her abdomen, and experienced an equally brief stab of panic. But the pain was only momentary, and the muscles of stomach and uterus remained still. That would, she thought, be exactly the sort of thing to happen to them–her going into labor at the _worst_ possible time.

_Not yet, little one_, she thought at the life inside her. _It's too soon. And I don't want you to be born on an alien's ship. That would be too gorram...weird._

Jayne sat against the wall near the door, arms resting loosely on his drawn-up knees. He was watching River with a kind of worry. Zoe wasn't sure if it was because he was afraid she might suddenly go buggy on them–which she had been known to do, from time to time when she'd been under great stress–or if it was for the girl's own sake.

She was worried about River, too, but if the girl was anything she was resilient. Most of the great gnawing worry Zoe felt was for Mal. The idiot, gone and got himself caught. Which said to her that he'd gone and done something stupidly noble again. She'd never known a man who could shift gears so quickly as Mal Reynolds. One minute, he was the coldest bastard she'd ever seen, and the next he was getting all manner of idiot heroic–and he never did either at the appropriate time. What was it Minty and Fango had said? He ran when he should stand and fight, fought when he should run...something like that, anyway. He hadn't been like that during the war. Then, mostly, he'd just stood and fought regardless.

Other issues related to her condition were making themselves impossible to ignore any longer. She shifted. "I'm goin' out," she announced.

Jayne looked up from his brown study, startled. "What? Why?"

"Ought to know something about our location," replied Zoe. "And as River doesn't look to be in any more immediate danger, I'm gettin' mighty tired of waitin' here."

Jayne shot an uneasy glance toward the doors. "Oh, I dunno if that's such a good idea, Zoe," he said slowly. "This place is gorram weird."

"I don't think anything'll try and kill me," said Zoe coolly. "And a bit of reconnaissance wouldn't hurt." She wasn't about to tell him that her actual, important reason for leaving the room was to see if she could locate a gorram bathroom. She hadn't exactly had time for any such thing during the battle and escape, and now that the adrenalin had worn off the knowledge that the baby was doing jumping jacks on her bladder was becoming painfully acute.

She watched the expressions cross Jayne's face. It was clear that the mercenary was torn between the desire to suggest that she shouldn't go anywhere in light of her condition–_ai ya_ but all the men on the boat had gotten so gorram fussy about this–and his own highly developed sense of self-preservation, which was probably telling him that if he made any such suggestion Zoe might very well shoot him. She hadn't made a great secret of her irritation with her fellow crew members' sudden protectiveness, even though she understood and, to a point, agreed.

Self-preservation won. "You want my gun?" Jayne offered. It was, from Jayne Cobb, a considerably generous and thoughtful offer. He hated other folk touching his weapons. Zoe smiled a little.

"Got one, thanks. You keep an eye on them." She jerked her head at River and Kaylee.

The little mechanic looked up, her face a mask of anxiety. "You ain't leavin' us?"

"Just to look around a bit," Zoe assured her. "I won't be long."

Kaylee bit her lip. "I–I'm sure the Doctor's ship is safe enough," she said reluctantly. Then she brightened a little. "I'd sure like to have a closer look at it my own self, after–after we get the cap'n back."

"I expect the Doctor'll be happy to offer you a tour." Zoe offered her a reassuring half-smile. River began to whimper as soon as she opened the door, and Zoe hustled herself out as fast as she could shift her ungainly body.

Outside, the corridor stretched to either side of her, shimmering softly in the lights. Zoe eyed the unfamiliar material of the wall nearest her. She and Wash, not long after their marriage, had gotten the opportunity to see an ocean on Persephone. She remembered the overpriced little souvenir shop, where she'd looked at jewelry made of polished coral. Poor Wash, he'd been so distressed that he couldn't afford to buy her anything...The walls reminded her a little of that coral. They had the same polished, warm texture to them.

She looked over her shoulder, trying to decide which way to go, and was more than a mite startled to see a door across from her. It hadn't been there when she'd come out; she was sure of that. It was a small door, and something about it...she opened it. It was a bathroom. The needs of a pregnant woman's bladder instantly overrode any sort of creepifying feelings she might have been having.

In the hallway again, she felt little desire to go back into the unsettling stillness of the Zero Room, and both the soldier in her and simple curiosity were clamoring for a look around this strange, impossible ship. The air was a little on the cool side, though not uncomfortable, and it smelled faintly of ancient paper–though she couldn't be sure on that, as interactions with real paper wasn't something that occurred much in her life–machine oil and...burnt toast? It smelled, for want of a better word, like a home. Serenity had similar smells, things that came with people living and working in the same space. This ship, though, lacked the full of life feeling that the transport had. Instead, it felt...too big. Even standing here in a more-or-less ordinary looking hallway, she had the impression of vast, echoing, and above all _lonely_ space. Like a place that had once been full of life and people, but was no longer. It was a little sad, actually.

Zoe shook the thoughts off. That was the pregnancy talking. She hadn't got as weepy as some women did during their time–well, not in public, anyway–but her emotions, usually so easy to tuck away until she had the luxury for them, were harder to control these days. After that firefight on _Serenity_...she'd actually been shaking, something she hadn't done since her very first battle. She'd done her best to hide it, and she was fair certain no one had noticed, but it was mighty unsettling to say the least. Even thinking back on the battle brought a small surge of post-fight tremors...She began walking, not even really paying attention to which direction she'd picked. She just needed to be_moving_. She surely hoped that she could regain her old self after the baby was born, at least in regards to fighting and such. Who could tell? No woman really knew how having a child would affect her, not until it was done. Maybe she would never again have the icy cold ability to keep any emotion–even the worst kind of heart-wrenching grief–under control until the job was done and over with. It was a horrifying thought; Mal _relied_ on her rock-steady calm...But nothing in this 'verse, not even the prospect of being forever altered, could make her truly sorry she carried this child. In the end, she could not help but regard even the shaking up of her very self into some new and strange and different mold as anything but a small price and inconvenience. She just hated that she was doing this alone–but she wasn't even doing that, not really. Wash might be gone, and she might miss him with an ache that would never pass, but it wasn't as though this child would be without a very large, very _noisy_ family. Everyone in the crew seemed to regard this event as being as important to them as it was to her. Comforting, in a way, even if it did involve watching Jayne behave in ways all manner of disturbing.

Hell, even if she _died_–and it could happen in childbirth–she could do so in the knowledge that her offspring would never lack for caring folk to do their best to screw up its upbringing. Zoe smiled a little at the thought. There was no doubt in her mind that Mal, in particular, could manage a spectacular screw-up usually reserved only for the best and most well-meaning of parents: he would be _unbelievably_ overprotective. Hell, he'd be that even with her still around to give him an evil glare for interferin' with her parenting. There would probably have to be a long talk between them, after the birth, about just what did and did not fall under the heading of 'captainly duties.' It would involve a certain shifting of their loyal-subordinate-and-superior-officer grounding. It would be uncomfortable, and uncertain. There would surely be screaming matches about it, which she didn't like the thought of. But she knew she could trust him to at least _try_ not to interfere with her role as parent. He'd been very good about staying out of her marriage, at least most of the time. And he would inevitably be cast in the role of father here, regardless of his real relationship with Zoe. It was unavoidable; he already acted as some kind of father to Kaylee, to River, to Simon and–in a very strange way that no one cared to examine too closely–even to Jayne.

She encountered a door in the wall next to her and, as her thoughts about the future wound themselves back onto the very real worry of the present, pushed it open to distract herself. It was a bedroom, small and fairly comfortably furnished, in shades of pinks, oranges, and purples that would have set Kaylee swooning in joy. It also looked as though someone were living here. The room was strewn with scattered clothing, half the drawers in the clothes-dresser stood at least partially open. The clothing clearly belonged to a woman–and probably a young one–and the liberal scattering of makeup and bits of inexpensive jewelry completed the image. There was a mirror, with photographs stuck into the frame. Really curious now, Zoe picked her way along the floor's rare clear spaces for a closer look.

The first photograph she examined was of a plump, middle-aged woman with a careworn but still pretty face, dyed-blonde hair and too much makeup. She was smiling out, her arm around a much-younger woman–also with bottle-blonde hair and a little too much makeup–who was obviously her daughter. The young woman was in most of the photographs and, with another glance around the room and taking in the hairbrush with long blonde hairs caught in it, Zoe concluded that she was the likely candidate for owner of the room's contents. There were a few photos of a young, dark-skinned man with a goofy smile and, even in the picture, the air of stupidity that clings to the very young and inexperienced. The girl stood with him in a couple, and it was clear that they had _some_ kind of relationship, though it was hard to tell if it was romantic or merely friendship. Or romantic-for-lack-of-any-options, which was really likely. There were pictures of the Doctor, too, with the young woman, with her mother–and he was making goofy gestures and faces that, had the mother seen what he was doing, would probably have earned him a slap–and even one with him and the young man, though he looked exasperated in those, and the young man looked both intimidated and annoyed, though they were both attempting to look cheerful. The last few photos were of the girl and another man, a little older looking than the Doctor, wearing a dark shirt and a black leather jacket. He had close-cut dark hair, icy blue eyes, and rather large ears and nose. He also had an startling, unbelievably charming smile for a man with such forbiddingly grim features. Zoe wondered if he were the girl's father, then decided it was unlikely, from the way he looked at the girl in the pictures. And there was something...odd...about the big-eared man...Another couple of photos had in them yet another man, probably in his thirties. He was unbelievably handsome, in a Core-World holodrama hero kind of way: black, thick hair, white teeth, square jaw. He looked like the kind of _shwie_ fellow who knew how handsome he was, and yet remained charming and likeable nonetheless. He and the blue eyed man were in one with the girl, and both had their arms around her shoulders, exuding the air of great friends.

Who were these people? Clearly, they meant a great deal to the girl, and judging from the pictures, to the Doctor as well. Where were they, then? This room had been recently occupied, but it already had an air of loneliness to it that said the owner was no longer here. If she'd left, then why hadn't she taken her things? No one would willingly leave photos like this behind. Perhaps she was dead, then. Might explain some of the sorrow she saw in the Doctor.

Zoe backed carefully out of the room, feeling a mite as though she'd violated some memorial. She turned, and stared. There was a door across from her. She _knew_ it hadn't been there before. Might be she was a little distracted, but not so much that her soldier's instincts didn't still note everything around her. The door had appeared, out of nowhere, while she was in the small room.

Jayne was right. This was a gorram creepy ship.

No threat though, or at least none that her soldier's sense could feel. Zoe allowed curiosity to prod her into opening the door. Beyond...lay a garden. She stopped, and stared up at blue sky dotted with clouds, felt a breeze ruffle her hair and tug at her shirt. Flowers nodded gently around her, shaded in places by stately trees. The air was heavy with their perfume and the smell of fresh soil. Birdsong poured like liquid joy from somewhere nearby.

"_Damn_." After a moment, she realized the soft, awed exclamation was her own voice. She took several involuntary steps forward, expecting at any moment for it to be revealed as the hologram it surely was. But the flagstones beneath her boots were solid, the moss speckling them springy.

She glanced behind her, half-worried that the way in might have vanished. The door was still open onto the strange corridor of the ship, though on this side it appeared to be set into an ivy-draped brick wall, the other side of which looked to be more garden.

It had been many long years since Zoe Alleyne Washburne experienced wonder. Perhaps the closest she'd come in the past decade was when she'd found herself married to the last man in the 'verse she'd ever expected to fall in love with. Even then, it hadn't been this breathless delight, the feeling that she'd stepped into a childhood dream.

And, in many ways, it _was_ a childhood dream. She'd been born in the black, on a family run transport, and the amount of time she'd spent dirtside could be counted in months–and most of that during the War. As a little girl, she'd dreamed of gardens, of open sky, of secret wilderness to explore and adventure in. She'd nearly forgotten those dreams, until right this moment...

A flicker of light around the corner of a wall caught her eye, and she moved to see what it was. It still felt so unreal. It simply wasn't possible that this place could exist on a _ship_, no matter how unbelievably weird it was.

The light came from some sort of...well, light sculpture was the only description Zoe could think up. Spiraling tendrils of light twisted upwards from the center of an intricate knotwork bed. She blinked, and peered closer. It seemed almost as though there were _faces_ that appeared in the shifting colors...Zoe froze, as one of the half-seen forms coalesced into something she knew far too well. Her husband's face smiled out at her from the strange column of light.

She stepped backwards, feeling her throat tighten in a mixture of shock, grief, and anger. _What the hell was this_?

"I'm sorry about that," said a voice, and Wash's face disappeared. The Doctor stood behind her, dressed in a blue suit and dark shirt and tie, grim-faced but otherwise apparently healthy. "The TARDIS is a sentimental old thing, but I'm not sure she entirely understands how much it can hurt, suddenly seeing the face of someone we've lost." His eyes left her face to rest on the writhing light sculpture, and his expression grew even more sober. Zoe followed his gaze and saw, for a moment, two faces. Both were female, one young and elfin, with short dark hair and huge dark eyes, the other narrow, almost haughty, framed by long fair hair. They seemed to flicker, shifting into other faces. Then the Doctor looked away, and the faces vanished.

Zoe found her voice. "How...how is that possible? How is _this_," she waved a hand at the garden, "possible?"

"Space can be an infinite thing," said the Doctor. "And the technology that grew this ship made excellent use of that concept. Even I don't know the limits of the TARDIS interior, and I've had centuries to know her. Things shift and change–the price of a living ship, I suppose. Bit frustrating, when you're looking for the loo in the middle of the night, but you can't have everything."

"Who were they?" Zoe nodded at the column.

The Doctor hesitated, looking again at the strange sculpture. Then he sighed. "They were...family. Friends. People I...loved."

"It shows the dead?"

"So it would seem." He shook his head. "I don't even know where that thing came from," he muttered. "But I haven't been in this garden in awhile."

"How could it know my husband?"

"The TARDIS gets inside your head, I'm afraid. Bit rude, I know, but as I said–sorry about that. I think she was trying to be comforting."

Zoe wasn't quite sure how to reply to that, and she didn't want to admit that the sight of Wash's face had shaken her so badly. So she changed the subject. "You seem pretty healthy, for a man who just got shot."

"Yes, I'm feeling much better now, thank you." He tilted his head back to look up at the impossible sky, ignoring the look Zoe was giving him. "Are you ready to go back to the Zero Room? I'd like to see what I can do for River."


	26. Chapter 26: Without Shield or Protection

**A/N: I'm alive! Hah. Sorry about the huge delay, ladies and menfolk, and thank you for your patience. Writer's block is an awful thing, when combined with the end of the semester and the holidays. Catching the flu, however, seems to be a cure although I don't recommend it. **

**The Christmas Special, "Voyage of the Damned" was fantastic, though in my opinion a bit over the top in places. (It's obvious that Russel T. Davies grew up on such fare as "The Poseidon Adventure".) It can, I understand, be seen in several parts on YouTube. It's certainly worth a watch. :D Me, I'm on a MacGyver kick at the moment. **

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "It's a good thing your tribe never developed guns; they'd have woken with a start one morning and wiped themselves out." --The Fourth Doctor, "Image of Fendahl"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Mal: Gotta say, doctor, your talent for alienatin' folk is near miraculous.  
Simon: Yes, I'm very proud. --Mal and Simon, "Safe"**

* * *

"And in the fury of this darkest hour  
I will be your light  
A lifetime for this destiny  
For I am Winterborn  
And in this moment...  
I will not run, it is my place to stand."  
–The Cruxshadows, "Winterborn"

Mal blinked, feeling dust gritty in his eyes. He knew this place. In some ways, he'd never really left it. Around him fires burned, lighting up the night, their roar mingling with the shouts of men and the sound of gunfire, the familiar _tian fuhn di fu_ of war. A dull howl made him look up, in time to see a skiff wheel overhead. He knew that skiff; he'd shot it down his own self nearly a decade ago.

"_Juh shi shuh mo go dohng shee?_" he demanded of the sky.

"I thought, Captain Reynolds, that you could use some reminding."

He whirled to see Vharaj standing several yards away, his arms clasped before him and shoulders tucked in a manner that made him look all the more birdlike. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded. "What is this?"

Vharaj tilted his head, eyes widening. "Surely you recognize where you are?"

Mal's eyes narrowed. "You know damn well I do," he growled. He looked around again. Despite the noise around them, he saw no one else. "This is in my head, ain't it?"

"Of course," said Vharaj, inclining his head.

"Get out," snapped Mal. "Get the hell outta my head."

"No."

With a low snarl, Mal hurled himself toward the creature, closing the space between them in long, angry strides. But Vharaj flickered and was no longer there. Mal stumbled, caught himself. Gritty earth bit into his palms. For being in his head, it felt gorram _real_. He spun around and spotted the Moksha standing atop a jumbled pile of rock some twenty feet away.

"The Battle of Serenity Valley," said the alien. "I've studied this civilization's history. This battle...it was a fierce one."

"You have no idea," Mal said coldly.

The alien cocked one bright eye at him. "Oh, I think I do. I, too, watched my hopes crumble in fire and dust, Malcolm Reynolds. I know exactly how it felt."

"Then it's damn clear you didn't learn much."

"Didn't I? I don't want to see something like this repeated." Vharaj gestured around them. "And it will happen again. You know it will. The Alliance will seek to bring the border worlds more tightly under their control, and war will erupt again."

"Explain to me, then, just how turnin' a lot of Reavers loose is any different?" Mal folded his arms. "Carnage is carnage. At least here the folk weren't puppets dancin' on a string."

"I'm certain you are familiar with the concept of a preemptive strike, Captain. A single, hard strike at the heart of the Alliance will cripple them, shatter their foundations."

Mal let out a shout of bitter laughter. "You really believe that _luh suh_? I suppose that's what McKinney thinks, ain't it. The Alliance is gorram huge, bird-man. They got fleets spread out all over Core space, and more'n enough out here on the Rim. Even if your monsters took Londinium..." He broke off, and drew a sharp breath. "_Ai yah tien ah_. You're gonna hold the world hostage. A whole gorram world."

The alien's features arranged themselves into something like a smile. "You _are_ a great deal smarter than you let on, Captain Reynolds. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, I'm a picture of brains," he snarled. "And you think that's gonna work? You think the Alliance won't firebomb Londinium rather than let you hold it ransom?"

"Since the government is on the planet, I imagine they will be interested in preserving their lives and those of their families from a horrific fate. All they have to do is surrender control of the government."

Mal snorted. "You really are some kinda _ai chr jze se duh fohn diang gho_ ain't ya? That's a plot out of some gorram holo-comic. It's stupid."

"They will comply," said the alien. "Because you are going to convince them to. You are a very persuasive man, Malcolm Reynolds. As the symbol and figurehead of the new Independent faction...they will listen to you."

"Like hell they will. Like hell I am. You ain't gonna get me to cooperate. Not while I'm upright and breathin'."

"Oh, I think you will. You really haven't got any choice in the matter. You can choose to help us willingly, or I will...change your mind for you."

Mal froze. "You _go neong yung duh_. Get away from me!"

The alien's eyes glittered. "It's too late for that, Captain. I'm already in your head. Will you submit? Or will you drive me to force?"

Sudden agony drove Mal to his knees. His mental knees, but he suspected he was on his knees in the real world, too. "I've been tortured before, you freak," he grated. "And you can't break someone who's already been broken."

"Oh...you might be surprised. One last chance, Captain. Will you help us?"

"Not so much."

"Very well. Then let us begin."

* * *

Simon had heard the term 'heart in throat' before, but had never really understood what people meant by it. Over the past few rocky years, on the run with his sister, he'd become closely acquainted with stomach-twisting terror, with utter panic, and–particularly since he'd met the captain–with blind fury. Now, watching a man he knew to be an alien kneeling over his psychic sister, cradling her face in his hands, head bowed and skin gone as ghostly pale as her own, doing something _within_ her mind that he could not begin to comprehend or even imagine...he thought that the lump of terror, suspicion, and breathtaking hope in his throat might just be his heart, crawled out of its usual place in his chest.

Kaylee stood beside him, clinging to his arm, watching the silent figures on the floor of the Zero Room, her expressive face showing every nuance of anxiety and hope she, too, felt. Simon still felt no small amount of wonder, that this bright, brilliant girl had not only handed him her heart, but included his strange, frightening sister in her love as well. He frequently felt that the universe had handed him an undeserved gift, one that might be snatched away at any moment, or that he, in his clumsy way, might shatter unintentionally. And yet no matter how often he infuriated the little mechanic, she always forgave him. It was so unlike his parents' polite, cool marriage, so like most of the high-society contracts he'd encountered, that he felt as though he'd been dropped into a tangled wilderness, blinded and without a guide.

Inara stood on his other side, and he realized that he had, at some point, grabbed hold of her hand. She hadn't protested, and he felt her fingers clasped tightly around his own. She was hardly old enough to be his mother–and yet, the comfort he felt now, holding her hand, reminded him of the rare occasions when he'd been very small and his own mother had shed her society mask long enough to show something warm and tender toward him. Strange to think of the glamorous Companion in that light, and yet... Zoe stood on the other side of the small ring that surrounded River and the Doctor, her face grim and stern and largely cold, though her hands cradled her belly in a way Simon had come to recognize as worry for one of the crew. She, too, woke in him a similar mother-comfort in Simon at this moment. Jayne slouched against the wall not far from her, doing his best to look disinterested, but failing to hide either his superstitious fear of the unknown events happening here, or even a faint concern for River herself. (Which, considering that River had once slashed him open with a kitchen knife, beaten him unconscious, and generally went out of her way to creepify the big mercenary, was saying something.)

Slight movement refocused the young surgeon's attention on his sister and the man attempting to (Simon hoped) help her. The Doctor's thick, crooked eyebrows had snapped together into a single dark line. He was nearly as pale now as he had been when Inara had brought him bleeding onto the ship; the freckles spattering his nose and cheeks seemed to glow against the bloodless backdrop of his skin. River's face remained serene, still as–he hated to think it–death.

Finally the Doctor spoke, breaking the silence that had stretched–had it only been a few minutes? It felt like years, to Simon. "You've had some cowboys in here, my girl," he growled. His lip curled back into a snarl, and his eyes opened, blazing furiously. Color flooded back into his face "If I _ever_get my hands on the lot that did this to you, I'll make them sorry the Universe _ever_birthed their molecules." Then he took a deep breath, and the anger smoothed out of his face. "But that doesn't matter so much to you, does it? Let's see what we can do about this wide-open brain of yours, shall we?" And his eyes drifted shut once more, the color draining again from his narrow features.

"D'you think he can help her?" whispered Kaylee. "I mean, d'you think he can make her better?"

Simon didn't answer. He didn't have one. Part of him hoped desperately that the Doctor _could_ help his sister, make her better. Restore her to what she had been, before the Academy.

And yet...

Was that what River herself wanted? Without the terrible burden of Miranda burning up her mind, she'd seemed more at peace with her new strangeness. And her abilities had, without doubt, been more than useful.

_God, I sound like Mal. 'Useful' indeed._

The silence stretched. Even the sound of their breathing seemed swallowed up in the odd embrace of the Zero Room. Simon's arm was growing numb from Kaylee's grip, but he made no effort to shift it. Zoe's hands were pale-knuckled where they clutched her abdomen. Simon had the sensation that something of great weight hung in the air, though he could not say what it might be.

Finally, the Doctor sighed and sat back on his heels, pulling his hands away from River's face. River's eyes blinked open and she sat up. They remained frozen that way for a long moment, the girl and the Time Lord, holding one another's gaze. Something passed between them, and then River gave a curt nod and climbed to her feet. She turned to Simon. "Well?" she demanded, sounding for all the world as though they'd all been standing around wasting time. "Let's go."

"River!" Simon pulled himself free of Kaylee and Inara and darted to her, grasping her shoulders. "You're all right?"

"Of course I am." She raised her eyebrows at him. "For now, anyway." She looked around at the others and smiled luminously. "Family," She said. She looked back at Simon. "He wants to talk to you. Alone."

Simon blinked, and looked around. The Doctor was smiling his manic grin and herding the rest of the crew out the door, babbling over their protests with his usual light-speed stream of inanity. And, surprisingly, they went. For all his apparent silliness, the Doctor possessed an ability to command that rivaled Mal's steel-laced authority.

River left the room last of all, still looking oddly serene and frighteningly normal. The Doctor stuck his head out into the corridor–presumably to discourage lingerers–then, apparently satisfied, turned to Simon. "Go on, then," he said.

"What_happened_? What–what did you see? What did you _do_?"

The Doctor held up a finger. "Let's get one thing very clear, right now. Your sister's mind is hers, and hers alone, and what's in it belongs to her. She graciously–and very bravely–allowed me into it. What I saw and witnessed in there is a confidence I will not betray. Anyway, trying to describe the mind of a sentient being is impossible, even for me. As to what happened and what I did...well, that's complicated. The truth is, I didn't do much."

Simon frowned. "You just said it was complicated."

"Because it _is_," insisted the Doctor. He burst into movement then, incapable of any more stillness, striding toward Simon and sweeping him up in his wake. They left the Zero Room for the green-gold glow of the strange ship's corridors. "How much do you know about what those–those–" his mouth twisted in disgust "–_cretins_, though calling them that is an insult to cretins everywhere, did to your sister's brain?"

"They cut into it," said Simon tightly. "And they stripped the part of her brain that–"

"–allows her to filter out sensory and emotional input," finished the Doctor. "Butchers," he growled. "They make Vlad the Impaler look like a gentleman. Actually," he added, looking distant, "Vlad wasn't such a bad chap. Bit psychotic, and really big on brutal forms of capital punishment, but polite as hell once you got on his good side. It was _staying_ on his good side that was the problem...Anyway," he shook himself, "they were trying to produce a psychic, yes?"

"Yes. I didn't think it was possible, until I saw what River could do." Simon shook his head. "It was like waking up in a science fiction novel."

The Doctor cocked an eyebrow. "You live in a spaceship," he said.

Simon glared at him. "And now I'm talking to an alien. And my sister really _is_ a psychic."

"Yes, well..." The other man cleared his throat and looked away. "Let me tell you something about psychic ability, Simon Tam. It is, mostly, science fiction. Hardly any races out there ever have or ever will develop true mental powers. Oh, sure, you get the occasional freak of DNA, and you get the sort of clairvoyant or poor beleaguered soul who helps policemen find bodies, but even most of them are really only extremely intuitive and only borderline psychic. But–and this is important–every sentient race in the Universe has the_potential_ to become psychic. It's the genetic code, as it were. The brains of sentient beings are _enormously_ complex. Even human brains. But the vast majority of 'em never use more than a fraction of their own brains' potential. There's not more than four or five races in all of Time who ever came even _close_ to accessing their brains' full abilities. My people were one of them–and we only achieved our sort of psychic ability through the use of bio-technology and thousands of years of research and experimentation."

"You mean like what was done to River."

The Doctor opened his mouth as if to protest, but hesitated. "You know, that's not impossible," he said. "What was done to her...it_does_ seem like the sort of jumping off point some over-ambitious Gallifreyan scientist might have come up with." He sighed. "I wish I could say that my people did it properly, and on willing subjects, but probably not. The truth is, my people were hardly ever the benevolent gods we wanted the rest of the Universe to see us as."

Simon raised his eyebrows. It was impossible not to get sidetracked in conversations with this man; he dropped so many fascinating asides. "Is that how you view yourself? A benevolent god?" He didn't bother to hide the incredulity in his voice.

"Can we leave my ego out of this conversation? Thank you. Back to your_sister_. The point I was trying to reach–and aren't points hard to get to?–is that she, like ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent of the beings in this Universe is not nor ever should have been psychic. But the potential _existed_, nonetheless, lying dormant in her brain and emerging as things like intuition or insight. Possibly even one of her children or grandchildren would have become one of those borderline psychics, I don't know."

He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Enter your meddling governmental scientist-goons. They decided they want a psychic, and so they approach it in a typically ham-handed and brutal manner: they stripped her brain, denied her the ability to filter out the world when it became too much. It's no wonder she became unstable. Add to that all the _other_ lovely little tortures they put her through..." The Doctor's teeth bared briefly. "I expect most of the other children they did this to really did shatter into nothing. But your River...her _mind_," his voice softened with wonder. "I've met many of humanity's best and brightest–and worst and brightest, too–but I've almost_never_seen a mind like your sister's. Such _brilliance_. She should have been the bright star of your system. Of your galaxy. Possibly of the whole human universe. And they broke it. Broke her." His eyes glittered for a moment–with tears or rage, Simon wasn't certain. "Anyway. What they did to her made her, in essence, a_ physical_ psychic. All that input–sights, sounds, smells, touch, even taste–flooding into her brain in a tidal wave. A single mind couldn't hope to cope with that much data all at once. But _her_ mind, the mind of a genius...A genius's mind is wired differently from other people's, walking a very fine line between brilliance and insanity. I ought to know; I _am_ a genius. Your sister, being something of a genius's genius, coped the only way she could."

"She became a real psychic," said Simon.

"That she did. But because of the physical damage done to her brain, she was stripped of even the basic mental shields that all creatures of higher brain-function possess. She had no way to shut out either the physical input, or, as her brain rewired itself, the mental. As far as I can tell, she's learned to cope somewhat. Or at least, she's learned to cope now that she hasn't got the secret of Miranda torturing her." He caught Simon's look. "Yes, your captain told me about that incident." His eyes flashed again–definitely anger this time. "One of these days, I'm going to have to make the time to pay that Academy a little _visit_."

Simon frowned. "It's been tried, or so the contacts I made when I rescued River told me. They just pop up again elsewhere."

The Doctor's grin was savage. "Oh, they won't pop up again _ever_ after they've met me, I promise you." He sniffed. "But that is not our concern at the moment." He stopped, and stepped around to face Simon. "I've constructed her some temporary shields, as much as she would allow me. She didn't want to lose all her access to her abilities, not, as she informed me, so long as the captain is in need of rescue. But it's only a temporary stopgap, Simon. Her limbic system is physically damaged, and wants treatment. That's where you come in." His eyes held Simon's, searching him. "Your sister told me that you're an extremely gifted surgeon."

Simon nodded. "I am, particularly with trauma surgery. Though next to my sister, I'm an idiot."

"I expect that the majority of the universe is an idiot next to your sister," said the Doctor, smiling faintly. "Possibly even me. How are you with neuro-surgery?"

Simon gulped. "Um..."

"Can you do it?"

"With time and–and study. But Doctor, I'm not about to just start cutting on my sister's brain–"

"I'm not suggesting you do any such thing. But I can give you information, Simon Tam. Not a procedure, because I'm not that kind of a Doctor and I don't use scalpels to help people. But the TARDIS's databanks are _vast_, and they span not only the civilizations of the universe, but also it's past, present, and future. I can give you everything I've got in my ship's libraries regarding neurological research, as well as psychic trauma and psychic phenomenon dealing with humans and near-humans. Including," he swallowed, and his eyes flickered away from Simons' briefly, "my own people's research."

Simon felt his jaw drop. "Are–are you serious? That's–that's–"

"–interference on a grand scale," said the Doctor, "and if my people were still around I'd be in trouble like you couldn't believe. But..." He ran a hand through his hair–leaving it standing on end, as usual–and sighed. "_I'm_ not even sure I should be doing this. But I promised River that I would do my very best to help her, and I mean to keep that promise as best I can." He fixed Simon with a penetrating stare. "And it means that I'm going to place an awful lot of trust in _you_, Simon Tam. And it comes with a price."

"What–what sort of price?"

"I'd settle for, oh, your firstborn child–I'm _kidding_," he added hastily, smiling at the expression on Simon's face. Then he sobered again. "What I'll ask is very nearly as hard, though. I don't even know if you'll be able to make use of the information I give you. If you're clever enough, and patient enough, you might be able to do something with it. But the information goes no further than you and, I suppose by default, your sister and the crew of _Serenity_. And if you develop a procedure to help your sister, then you are under an obligation to help any others like her that you come across." He held up a hand to forestall Simon's comment. "I'm not telling you that you have to go out and rescue every single one of them yourself. _Serenity_ hasn't got those kind of resources, and while I don't doubt the idea would appeal to Malcolm Reynolds' heroic side, his pragmatic side would probably have a few rude things to say about it. And I won't argue with it; I know you have to survive out here." He grinned. "Not everyone can do what I do every day. But you _are_ obligated, my young friend, to help those who need it should you find them. And any procedure you develop to assist them is to be used _only_ for that purpose, and none other. I want your word on that, Simon Tam, a solemn promise that you'll do as I ask."

Simon swallowed, hard. "I promise," he said softly. "I wouldn't do otherwise," he added.

The Doctor eyed him thoughtfully. "No," he said. "I don't think you would. I think I _can_ trust you. Mind you," he added. "I ought to warn you that the Universe seems to be very big on karmic rebound, so if you _do_ break your promise to me, well...expect to see me again. The TARDIS will make sure of that. And there won't be a second chance."

Simon believed him. There was something very cold and very, very sincere in the Doctor's dark eyes as he said this. He nodded.

"Good, then." The Doctor beamed at him. "Once your captain is safe and sound, I'll pass over the data." He turned, and opened a door that Simon was almost certain hadn't been there a moment before. Beyond lay the console room. Simon blinked. "Now, let's see what we can do about saving Mal, shall we?"

"I suppose you have a plan?" asked Simon, only a little dryly, as they entered the room. The others were waiting there, and they all turned as he spoke.

The Doctor grinned. "You bet I do. I'm going to surrender."

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

**_tian fuhn di fu_: pandemonium**

**_Juh shi shuh mo go dohng shee?_: What the hell is this crap?**

**_luh suh_: crap**

**_Ai yah tien ah_: merciless hell**

**_ai chr jze se duh fohn diang gho_: crazy dog in love with its own feces**

**_go neong yung duh_: son of a bitch**


	27. Chapter 27: Surrender

**Author's Note: Um...  
**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "But that's it! That's exactly the point! Oh, Lumic, you're a clever man. I'd call you a genius... except I'm in the room. But everything you've invented you did to fight your sickness. And that's brilliant. That is so human. But once you get rid of sickness and mortality, then what's there to strive for, eh? The Cybermen won't advance, you'll just stop! You'll stay like this forever. A metal Earth with metal men and metal thoughts. Lacking the one thing that makes this planet so alive: people! Ordinary, stupid, brilliant people! " --Ten, "Rise of the Cybermen**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: "I like watching the game. As with other situations, the key seems to be giving Jayne a heavy stick and standing back." --Inara, "Shindig"**

* * *

Hold your head up high-for there is no greater love  
Think of the faces of the people you defend  
And promise me they will never see the tears within our eyes  
Although we are men with mortal sins, angels never cry  
–The Cruxshadows, "Winterborn" 

"I still don't like it." Jayne's voice was tinny over the communicator, but his reluctance rang clear. "I mean, at least Mal had somethin' _like_ a plan, most times. And usually it weren't completely nuts."

The Doctor rolled his eyes and raised the little radio to his lips. "Stop arguing about it, Jayne. Are you and Zoe in position?"

There was a grunt, crackling with static. "Near enough. Though I still don't see how we're gonna–"

"Just do as I asked, Jayne, all right? It's not hard–or it shouldn't be, so long as Zoe is the one who uses the psychic paper. Don't you dare touch it, do you understand? No telling what it'll come up with if you get your hands on it."

Zoe's voice cut off Jayne's protests. "I've got it just fine, Doctor. Stop fussin' and get on with your half of things."

The Doctor sighed, lowering the communicator. "Please, tell me again that there was no possible way to convince her to stay aboard the TARDIS?" he asked Inara. "Sending a pregnant woman out into that offends all my–admittedly old fashioned–sensibilities."

"If you'd argued with her any longer, Doctor, she'd have shot you. And it _is_ possible that she and Jayne's part of things won't be required."

"I can hope," said the Doctor, "but considering how my days usually go, I think it's a feeble hope at best." He shook his head and lifted the comm again. "Kaylee?"

"_Shuh muh?_"

"You in position?"

"Yep. All shiny here. Not a guard in sight. Looks like they all went home for the night."

"I expect there'll be a few around Vharaj's lab," the Doctor muttered. "Sit tight and wait for my signal," he told her. "It all depends on you, Kaylee."

"No worries, Doc, I got it covered."

"I imagine you do. And don't call me 'Doc.'" He glanced around at Simon and Inara. "All right, then. Are you two ready?"

"If you are," said Simon. He tugged uneasily at his collar. "You do this a lot?"

"What, surrender? All the time. Funny thing is, though, the bad guys almost never take me up on it..." The Doctor loosened his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and shot a final look at the TARDIS's closed doors. "Of course," he added softly, "that could be because I never really mean it." He winked in the general direction of his ship. "Let's go."

He'd landed the TARDIS in the corridor he, Inara, and Mal had crept down just hours before, not far from the security gate. There was no reception waiting for them here, but he didn't suppose for a minute that it was because he'd managed to pull one over on Vharaj. The Mokshar was well aware of his ship's capabilities, and if he didn't have a squad of soldiers awaiting them as soon as the TARDIS materialized, it was because he was playing a deeper game. _Let's see just how deep you can go, shall we, Vharaj?_

Several minutes passed in tense silence. At the Doctor's insistence, none of them were armed. Because he'd chosen to take along Inara and Simon, he hadn't got a lot of argument about it; neither of them were as attached to weaponry as, say, Jayne or Zoe. _And I hope to heaven that Jayne and Zoe succeed in their task, or things upstairs could get very bad._

Finally Simon broke the quiet. "Is this going to work, Doctor?"

"Oh...sure. Of course. Why shouldn't it?" He didn't sound convincing, even to his own ears. His talent for lying in this regeneration was, to his frustration, erratic at best.

"What about Mal?" asked Inara. "Do you think he's all right?"

The Doctor sighed. This wasn't a good time to be having this conversation. "Do you want an honest answer, or a comforting answer?"

She said nothing, but the fear in her dark eyes told him that she didn't need to hear either one; her imagination was already supplying her with plenty of fodder. _And she can't even imagine the worst of it, like I can._ On the other hand, he could hope. Hope that Vharaj had been content with keeping Mal prisoner, a hostage against the Doctor's inevitable countermove. After all, what could he possibly want with one belligerent ship's captain? _But on the __**other**__ hand..._

Vharaj had known the name "Malcolm Reynolds." And that, in the Doctor's book, couldn't be a good thing.

They reached the doors that led into the lab corridor, and the Doctor could see through the windows that the expected reception party was on the other side. "Well, ladies and gents," he said. "Here goes nothing."

* * *

Kaylee squeezed herself further into the crawlspace, holding her breath until the sound of booted feet faded away. The flash of fear served to sharpen her senses; she was mighty grateful it hadn't set her over into panic. She didn't freeze so bad as she used to, before that fight with the Reavers, but she wasn't gonna place any confidence that anything _less_ than imminent, horrible death would keep her from locking up._Sometimes I wish I was a soldier, like Zoe. __**She**__ wouldn't let panic freeze her up._

She wriggled a little further down the crawlspace, shining her penlight at the lines of wires overhead. _Just breathe, Kaylee. You gotta stay focused. The Cap'n's dependin' on you, and so is the Doctor._ And everyone else. She tried not to think of Simon, walking into the lion's den with the Doctor. She had her own lion's den to worry over.

At last the trail of colored wires and piping overhead formed a junction, and at that junction...Kaylee grinned. Guns and fighting, well, she'd never be good at either one. But _this_, now, _this_ she understood better than anybody.

Gripping her penlight between her teeth and scrabbling in her coverall pockets for her utility knife, Kaylee got to work.

* * *

The desk sergeant stared at Zoe. "I'm sorry–could you _repeat_ that?" 

Zoe raised an eyebrow and fixed the man with her coldest soldier's stare. He wilted visibly. Man didn't have the spine to be a real sergeant, she thought contemptuously, and shoved the psychic paper under his nose. "Take a good look at that, sergeant, and try to convince me you aren't _tian di wu yohn_, all right?"

He swallowed, eyes flickering down to the paper again. "S-sorry, Agent. It's just–just–_Reavers_?"

"You callin' me a liar?"

"No ma'am," he squeaked.

"Then listen _closely_ this time, sergeant. I ain't gonna repeat myself again. We got solid evidence that a terrorist cell has corralled a number of Reavers and are holdin' them beneath the Renier complex. Seems the_se duhng_ plan to let the things loose on the city. So unless you want to be held personally responsible for the biggest gorram bloodbath this 'verse has ever seen, I suggest you get on the horn to your commander _right now_."

The sergeant gulped, glanced over Zoe's shoulder at the looming Jayne, and dove for his comm. He spoke quietly and urgently into it for a few moments then, thumbing it off, looked up nervously at the two standing in front of his desk. "J-just one moment, m-ma'am." He disappeared through a door–Zoe hoped it was to get his commander, and not call in a squadron to arrest them. She snuck a glance at the psychic paper. It still said, to her eyes, that she was a federal agent.

"This ain't gonna work," Jayne muttered. "I can't believe we're recruiting the ruttin' _cops_."

"_Joo koh_, Jayne," she hissed. "Or it's gonna be just you and me holding that line against the Reavers."

"How does the Doc even know they're gonna get turned loose?"

"He don't," said Zoe. "But frankly, if it was me in the other guys' position, I'd use 'em as a big gorram threat. And they ain't gonna just bluff; we already know they got no problem usin' their pet Reavers. So _shut up_ and look official."

Jayne grunted. "That an order?"

"I'll back it up with a fist in your groin if you like."

"He ain't gonna buy a _pregnant_ agent."

"_Jayne..._"

Sulking, the mercenary shut his mouth.

The sergeant returned a moment later, in the wake of a small, neat little man who nonetheless carried with him the air of a tough commander. He took in Zoe and Jayne, inspected the 'badge' carefully, and then looked Zoe square in the eye. She returned his gaze impassively.

Finally, he spoke. "What kind of resources do you need, Agent?"

* * *

The Doctor sighed. "Once, just _once_ I'd like to surrender _without_ guns being pointed at me. Guns are _so_ overused. Still, I suppose it's traditional." He submitted to being patted down by one of the security men. He watched mournfully as his sonic screwdriver was confiscated from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Well, he hadn't _really_ expected Vharaj to let him get this far again with _that_ little tool. 

The squad commander gestured with his weapon. "Take off the coat. And the suit jacket."

"What? Oh, come _on_–" He swallowed the rest of his protest as the commander leveled the weapon purposefully at his nose. Apparently, they'd decided to skip searching the rest of his pockets. Pity, that. "Fine." He shrugged off coat and jacket, and passed them over. "Be careful with that coat," he said sternly, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up the sleeves. "I'm very fond of it."

Two men took him by the arms and marched him at the head of the group toward the lab doors. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Inara and Simon being prodded forward as well. _Moving right along toward checkmate. I just hope all my pawns are in place..._

Vharaj's funding was impressive; the damage done by the Doctor's earlier exit was already almost all cleared away. He felt the hairs on his neck rise, though, as he saw the cylinders. They were empty now–where had the Reavers gone, then? _How many moves can you think ahead, Vharaj? Or are you just fumbling in the dark, hoping to outwit __**me**_

They passed through the lab, into carpeted and nicely painted corridors beyond. The Doctor caught glimpses, through doorways, of offices. This was the _real_ heart of the operation where, he suspected, the Mokshar's human allies made their monstrous decisions in the clean, quiet safety of their fine offices, far removed from the true blood and horror of the consequences.

_Corporations. I hate bloody corporations._

The security squad ushered them at last into a broad executive office, expensively and rather more tastefully furnished than the lobby and offices in the building far above. No windows, but the room was subtly well lit to give the impression of windows. At the far end, next to a large desk, stood Vharaj, flanked by several human men. And at the Mokshar's feet, curled up in something that looked very much like agony...

Behind him Inara let out a soft cry. The Doctor risked a glance at her stricken face, saw Simon's arm close around the woman's shoulders–from the way her fists had curled, he suspected it was more to prevent her flinging herself at the nearest available victim and clawing eyes out than to offer comfort. The Doctor turned his attention back to the tableau in front of them and drew a deep breath, shunting aside his own worry and fear for Malcolm Reynolds and loosening the reins holding his anger in check. _You have no idea what you've just stepped into, Vharaj._

They came to a halt a few feet from the Mokshar and his fallen prisoner. The security men holding the Doctor's arms released him, and he took a few steps forward. _They don't see me as a threat. I'm unarmed, and Vharaj knows I won't attempt physical violence._

_Idiots._

He was on the edge now, between life and death, disaster and triumph, good and evil. This was where he _lived_. He bared his teeth at Vharaj in something that, if the alien had all his wits about him, he would _not_ consider a smile. "Hullo again, Vharaj."

The feathers of the Mokshar's crest rippled slightly as he tilted his head to watch the Doctor narrowly. "Doctor," he said warily. "Is this your idea of a plan?"

"You were expecting a frontal assault?" The Doctor shrugged, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. This resulted in a general swiveling of guns in his direction, so he very slowly removed them again, making sure the guards could see they were empty. _Better be careful, or they'll be demanding my trousers next._ And attempting to save the world in one's knickers was, while not impossible, somewhat embarrassing... "You said it yourself, before: military operations really aren't my style."

"What do you want, then?"

"Oh, right to the point. How nice. I wasn't really in the mood for a chitchat anyway." The Doctor lifted his chin. "An exchange, Vharaj. Me for Captain Reynolds. Let him go, and you get me–and all my vast, vast knowledge of bioengineering, physics, and cricket statistics. Ooh, and the TARDIS, too. Just let _Serenity's_ captain and crew go free, unpursued and unmolested."

The Mokshar's luminous eyes narrowed. "That's quite an offer, Doctor"

"Isn't it though? Frankly, you're getting the better deal. I can't imagine what use Captain Reynolds is to you, compared to me. His major talent, so far as I can tell, seems to be getting into trouble."

Vharaj tilted his head. "I don't see the rest of the crew with you. Where are they?"

"Safe, elsewhere. These two wanted to make sure Mal was all right, so I let them come along. I think two extra hostages are more than enough for you, aren't they, Vharaj? And, like Captain Reynolds, of no real use to you."

"Allow me to introduce my partners to you, Doctor." Vharaj gestured to the men with a long graceful hand. "Oris McKinney, Alistair Rhineholdt, Marshall Walker, and Yun Sing Smythe."

He sensed Inara tense beside him, heard her hiss, "They were Browncoat leaders, Doctor!"

_Oh._ He looked the men over, and allowed his gaze to flicker briefly to the still shape on the floor. _Oh...dear._ False move for the Doctor–he'd forgotten to include the human partners' motivations into the mix. Vharaj's knight to bishop three, and he'd taken one of the Doctor's chess pieces. The men were silent, content, it seemed, to allow their alien ally to do the talking. He watched Vharaj's eyes glitter. _Yes, you scored one, Vharaj._

_Or at least you __**think**__ you did._

"Bit of a twist, I expect, for Captain Reynolds. But what does it matter, really? I'm still a more valuable prospect for your little...project. And I'm offering myself for a ridiculously low price, Vharaj." _A low price to you, anyway, who now places price on lives._ "Better take the offer, before I change my mind."

"You seem to be operating on the assumption that I'm stupid, Doctor," said Vharaj. "I'm not one of the serial drama villains you seem to believe you fight daily. I know your reputation, remember? You offer to help, of course–and suddenly everything will go wrong. No, I don't think so. My allies and I are on an important mission, serving a greater good, Doctor. Not your narrow idea of right and wrong. I'm not going to risk all of that by turning _you_ loose on it, no matter how much you claim to know." The Mokshar's features shifted into an expression the Doctor recognized as a smile. "And you're sorely mistaken if you think that Malcolm Reynolds is of no value to us." He turned his smile down toward the man at his feet. "He is of _great_ value."

He wasn't terribly interested in hearing _any_ of this lot's twisted justifications, but the Doctor knew he needed to buy just a little more time. "Really? Why is that?"

"He's a leader, Doctor. Potentially a great one–though it has become very clear to me that Malcolm Reynolds is unaware just how deep his talents really run."

_No, I don't think so Vharaj. He's just content to let those talents be of use to people he loves, rather than a bloody great army. He knows the price of 'great leadership' far too intimately to ever want to pay it again._

"Once he has been suitably _persuaded_," continued Vharaj, "he will be our cause's most valuable asset."

The Doctor blinked, and took a moment to filter the Mokshar's little speech through his internal blarney-filter. What was it about people? Didn't matter what race they were, when they turned villain they all seemed to operate from the same handbook of cliches. "Vharaj...I've got a pretty good idea what you lot are up to with your little army of monsters, and I've got to tell you–it ranks up there with one of the most _ridiculous_ plots I've ever seen. And I've seen a _lot_ of ridiculous plots over the centuries. _Really_ ridiculous ones. Tell me, have you recently started reading comic books? Or watching bad science fiction films from Earth? Because this whole setup is _just_ the kind of serial-villain nonsense you claim to be avoiding."

Vharaj's crest rippled. _Yes, get angry, Vharaj. Because I __**know**__ you can't channel your anger like __**I**__ can._

The Doctor rolled on, letting the scorn lay thick in his voice. "And, what? You're going to 'persuade' Captain Reynolds to help you out? Be your figurehead? I _know_ he won't agree to that. Oh, but he doesn't have to agree, does he? You can just change his mind for him, is that it, Vharaj?" He jerked his head toward the crumpled heap that was Mal. "Only it's not working that well, is it, Vharaj? You can break his mind without effort, but that only strips away the very qualities you're after. Do you plan to be a puppet master, then? Or were you planning on propping up a zombie at the head of your abominations? Because that's what you've got right there, my friend. A zombie. The talent to lead doesn't exist without free will. _Nothing_ exists without free will. Your people knew that _very_ well–when did you forget, Vharaj? When you started playing God?"

He had no way of knowing just how much damage Vharaj had already done to Mal, not without physical contact. But Malcolm Reynolds did _not_ look good. His face was corpse-pale, and from here the Doctor couldn't see whether or not he was even breathing. He clenched his jaw. No time to worry now. There was too much at stake to let compassion get in his way. _Forgive me, Mal. I hope this doesn't cost you your life._ "Let them go," he growled. "I'm warning you, Vharaj. Take my deal. I'll help you find a better way to topple the Alliance."

The Moksha sneered. "You, Doctor, are not in a position to deal. Malcolm Reynolds will be of use to our cause–and so will you."

"I won't help you if you don't let him go."

Vharaj turned to his partners. "Gentlemen, with your permission?"

The man Vharaj had introduced as McKinney took a step forward. "Just who is this man, Vharaj? I've never heard of him. How do you know he isn't an Alliance agent?"

"He isn't anyone's agent," said Vharaj. "And like me, he isn't human. He wasn't lying when he said he has extensive knowledge of biotechnology. His people were once among the Universe's foremost experts in bioengineering. Among other things. And then, of course, there is his ship. With its technology, overthrowing the Alliance and ending their injustice will be an easy task."

_Hah. I'd love to see you try and get the TARDIS to cooperate._ "So is it a deal, Vharaj?" He knew the answer already, but Vharaj had to have his chance.

"No, Doctor, it is not a deal. I told you: I'm not a fool. You don't have to give your help willingly any more than Captain Reynolds did." The Mokshar lifted his hands. "I'll simply change your mind for you."

The Doctor tensed. _Here it goes. The midden, ladies and gentlemen, has just hit the fan._

* * *

Kaylee's comm crackled. "Time to play, Kaylee."

"_Chr ah,_" Kaylee replied, and replaced the penlight between her teeth. "Here goes nothin'," she mumbled, and began twisting stripped wires together.

The lights overhead flickered, and the security guard closest to Inara let out a soft mutter of surprise. There was a low rumble from somewhere else in the building.

* * *

One of the former Independents–the youngest of them, Rhineholdt–frowned and, lifting his communicator, began to speak rapidly in Chinese. He listened to the response–which at this distance came to Inara's ears only as a series of agitated, muffled squawks–and then leaned over to whisper something in Yun Sing Smythe's ear. The Eurasian man scowled in turn and said, "Vharaj, there seems to be something going on with the generators. Power surges."

The alien's huge eyes flickered. "Doctor."

The Doctor lifted his eyebrows, an expression of magnificently insincere innocence on his face. "Yes, Vharaj?"

"Call it off. Now."

"Or what? You'll shatter my mind? Oh, wait, you were going to do that anyway. So..._no._"

"Call it off, or I'll turn the Reavers loose."

"Not in here, you won't. I don't think you can deal with Mal _and_ me_and_ controlling your little pets all at once–and it wouldn't be polite to let them eat your business partners, would it?"

"I won't release them in here. On the city. Out of my control."

The Doctor's face went still and cold. In Mal, Inara knew, that expression meant that someone was about to get shot. The Doctor didn't have a gun, but she suspected that it still meant much the same thing. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

"Then call it off."

"No."

Inara exchanged a worried glance with Simon, and read her own prayer mirrored there. _Please, please let Jayne and Zoe have succeeded._

The former Independents shuffled, a little uncomfortably. "Vharaj," said McKinney uneasily, "are you sure this is wise? Paquin isn't a target..."

"That," said Vharaj, "is up to the Doctor." The lights flickered again, and this time the rumble of machinery going haywire was much closer. "Call it _off_, Doctor."

"No means _no_, Vharaj." The Doctor's eyes were hard.

"Very well." Vharaj reached out, pressed a button on a panel set into the desk's surface. "On your head be it, Doctor." Rhineholdt, his face pale made a gesture as though to prevent the alien's act, but at a sharp glance from McKinney he subsided, looking a little ill.

"Oh, I don't think so, Vharaj."

Inara felt her nails digging into her palms. _I hope you know what you're doing, Doctor. You're gambling with people's lives._

But he knew it. Inara had previously found the Doctor's body language difficult to read, but now he was not attempting to conceal himself from her trained eyes. Or perhaps she was just getting to know him better. Either way, she saw the tiny shudder, the flicker in his eyes that told her he had counted the cost, and prayed it would not be too high.

* * *

"The monsters are loose, Zoe."

Zoe lifted her comm to her lips. "Shiny." She thumbed the switch. "You get that, Jayne?"

"Yeah. Hope Kaylee did her job."

"Get your men in position."

"Already there, 'Agent'."

Zoe allowed herself a small smile as she lowered the comm. Jayne Cobb had his flaws, and they were many, but it could not be said he was anything but a boon in a fight. She twisted her head around to look at the police commander. "Hope you all are ready to be big damn heroes, Commander Twofalls."

The little man's face became extremely sardonic. "We're cops, Agent Alleyne. We're supposed to do this kind of thing every day. Admittedly, though, not against Reavers." He shook his head. "But the motto says 'serve and protect', not 'serve and protect unless it's Reavers, in which case hide and cry like a little girl.' No matter how tempting the idea might be."

Zoe's smile widened. She never thought she'd think any such thing about a cop, but she liked this one. He really _was_ interested in doing his job, and doing it right. "_Joo how rin_, Commander," she told him, and meant it.

"And you, Agent. I don't want to see you down in that fight, _dohn ma?_"

Zoe patted the sniper rifle he'd given her. "I can cover your back just fine from up here, Twofalls."

He nodded, though she could tell by his expression he'd prefer to order her out of the fight altogether–but didn't dare, since she 'outranked' him. "I'll have men on the stairs, in case anything breaks through. They'll keep you covered."

Zoe nodded her thanks. It was a funny thing; even men who were complete strangers were getting all mother-hen on her. It was something to remember as a potentially useful guise in future heists...

He disappeared to rejoin his men, and Zoe shifted her weight. Ideally, lying on one's stomach was the ideal position to lay down sniper fire. That wasn't an option, so she had to make do with a sort of sideways huddle. It was uncomfortable as hell–and her bladder was already protesting–but she had no intention of waiting all this out on the TARDIS. She owed Mal loyalty and life and friendship, and she meant to honor that bond.

Leaning on the concrete wall rimming the rooftop, Zoe adjusted her sights and waited for the monsters to appear. Kaylee had done her job, and done it well, shutting down or sealing off much of the big corporate highrise, both to shield the people inside it and to channel the Reavers along certain corridors and out a single exit, forcing them to bottleneck and give the hasty defense force a shot at winning.

She could see the ripple shudder along the ranks of the city's police force as the doors began to shudder and twist, assaulted from the inside. From this vantage, they looked like a pitifully thin line, for all their riot armor and heavy weaponry. She and Jayne had done the best they could to give the officers a crash course in Reaver fighting–without, she hoped, giving away too much as to just _how_ they were so familiar with the task–but there wasn't a thing in the 'verse that could prepare _anyone_ to face that kind of fury. She could only hope their nerve would hold.

The doors gave, and the first wave of Reavers boiled out. Zoe blew out her breath, aimed, and began squeezing off shots. She did not have Jayne's uncanny skill with long-range firearms, but she was good enough. Three of the monsters went down to her bullets, and the policemen, led by Jayne and Commander Twofalls, open fired. Then the Reavers closed with the front ranks and the battle erupted for real.

* * *

Inara watched Rhineholdt's anxious face as he muttered into his communicator. A flicker of surprise–and not a little relief–crossed his expression, though he tried to hide it. He glanced at Vharaj and his companions, hissed an order into the comm, and attempted to look as though he were unconcerned.

"You know," the alien said, almost conversationally, "I can't help but feel that I may be doing the Universe a favor, by removing you from the equation. I think you're as big a monster as the Daleks ever were."

"Am I? Oh, well, if letting people live with the consequences of their own choices makes me a monster, then I suppose I am. I wonder, though, Vharaj–what does that make you? Because I really don't think the term 'hero' is going to apply here, no matter how much you might want it to."

The Mokshar's feathers rippled in agitation. "Enough chatter, Doctor. Are you going to submit willingly? I'd rather not cause you more pain than necessary."

The Doctor's smile was tight. "Ah, the universal plea of rapists everywhere. And yes, Vharaj, that's what you are. So _no_. I'm _not_ going to submit willingly to having my mind forcibly invaded. Do your worst."

"As you wish."

Vharaj's luminous eyes flared. The Doctor went rigid, his lips skinning back from his teeth in a silent snarl. They remained like that for a long moment, then the Doctor fell to his knees, clutching at his head. He began to scream.

* * *

Jayne Cobb had never been averse to prayin', silent-like, if the situation called for it. His ma had always told him that, while God helps them as helps themselves, sometimes God needed a bit of nudging. He prayed now, with every shot, as the fury of the battle raged around them. Little Kaylee had done her job–and he was gonna buy her a drink if they got outta this–and the Reavers could only come at them a few at a time, but it was still one hell of a nightmare. They were doing their best to plug the entrance with Reaver bodies, and that slowed 'em some, but already a couple of cops had gone down, torn apart by the enraged monsters. The other officers' nerve was beginning to shake under _that_ horror, and if something didn't happen real soon Jayne knew he was gonna be fighting these things all by his lonesome.

He slammed Veera as hard as he could into a snarling face, kicked the thing down and, reversing his big gun, fired. He stood, for a moment, in a tiny eddy in the battle. Twisting around, he spotted the police commander nearby. "Twofalls! You got any grenades?"

The commander stared at him, then shook himself and fired a clean skull-shot at a Reaver. "Yeah. Clear me a path to the supply truck!"

Jayne grinned, and sent up another prayer–this one of thanks–with his next bullet.

* * *

**Chinese Translations:  
tian di wu yohn: completely useless  
se duhng: gang  
Chr ah: gotcha, okay  
**


	28. Chapter 28: The Storm Unleashed

**Author's Note: Okay, so you all don't expire from surprise at the sudden rash of updates, I'll confess: I got up at ten a.m. on Wednesday morning (I was still home sick from work, though finally to the point where staying home was enjoyable rather than miserable because I was getting healthy again) and wrote until ten o'clock that night with only a two hour break in there to spend some time reading Terry Pratchett's "Thud!" to my friends. Ladies and gentlemen, this story is _finished_. I still can't quite believe it my own self, but there you are. :) I find myself sitting down at my computer and am at something of a loss, because I still have the urge to write, but haven't yet decided what my next project is going to be. :) **

**But because I am an Evil Woman, I refuse to post it all at once. But as you can see, I won't drag out the torture TOO badly...**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting." --The Third Doctor, "The Time Monster"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Simon: Oh yes, he's a real beast. It's a wonder you're still alive.  
Jayne: Looked bigger when I couldn't see him. --"Bushwhacked"**

* * *

I bring the winds to free you from your hesitation  
I call the storms to remind you what you are  
My faith endures for the sake of something less and more in them  
And so I bring the winds, to echo in your heart...  
–"Windbringer," The Cruxshadows

The Doctor fell silent, shoulders heaving as he struggled for breath, though the awful, ragged screams still echoed in Inara's ears. She clutched Simon's arm tightly, as much to keep herself from trying something stupid–like snatching away one of the security guards' guns and killing Vharaj herself–as for support. _Is that what he did to Mal?_

It was hard to identify expression's on the Mokshar's alien face, but everyone else in the room seemed frozen in horror, even Vharaj's ex-Browncoat allies. Inara eyed the staring guard nearest her, and wondered if making a play for a weapon was as stupid as all that. Everyone seemed utterly caught up in the awful drama playing out between Vharaj and his victim...

And then the Doctor began to laugh.

If you could call it a laugh. Inara thought it was the most chilling sound she'd ever heard, a low, cold chuckle with only the blackest humor in it. A ripple of shock ran around the room. Vharaj blinked, clearly as surprised as everyone else.

"I have invaded your mind, Doctor," he said gravely. "I felt your shields shatter. What is this?"

The Doctor got slowly, painfully, to his feet, still laughing softly. His eyes, when he opened them, were fever-bright. "So you have, Vharaj. But you're not the first being to batter your way into my head. Probably you won't be the last." His teeth bared in a swift, scimitar smile, as chilling as his laughter of a moment before.

Vharaj took a step backwards, then caught himself. "What is this?" he demanded again.

"Shall I let you in on a little secret, Vharaj? Of all those beings who have ever broken into my mind, not a one of them succeeded without my letting them."

There was a moment of silence. Then, "Even a Time Lord's defenses cannot stand up to someone with my training. You're bluffing, Doctor."

"Possibly," agreed the Doctor affably. "And I won't try and convince you all that screaming was an act. That was bloody painful, Vharaj, I'll have you know. You really _did_ batter through my shields."

Vharaj's eyes narrowed, and Inara thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty in the alien's great eyes. "Your mind is mine, Doctor. Your will. Your self."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Is it? Is it really?" He grinned savagely. "But here's a thought to worry _you_, Vharaj. Now that you're _in_my mind, can you get out again?"

Vharaj's eyes widened. "Wh–what have you done?"

"You seem to have forgotten some of the basic rules of psychic combat, Vharaj. One in particular–that in the moment an attacker succeeds in breaking through his opponent's defenses, _in that moment his own defenses must be lowered to allow him in._ Now, that's not usually a problem. I'm not surprised you didn't remember it–I was certainly in no position to take advantage, was I? Only I'm not alone, Vharaj. While you were busy showing off how tough you are in the face of the hapless Time Lord's pathetic psychic defenses, I'll guarantee you never noticed the very _human_ psychic making mincemeat of yours." The Doctor lifted a hand.

And from the hall behind them glided River, smiling serenely past the security team. She had, until now, been waiting in the TARDIS, relaying orders and waiting for the Doctor's call. "Snap," she said.

"Whoops," said the Doctor. "Too late. You're nicked now, old chum, and you aren't getting out until _I_ say otherwise. No, don't," he said, as the security team made as though to raise their guns. "Tell them to put their weapons down, Vharaj."

The Mokshar's eyes narrowed. "No." Then he gasped, and swayed, the feathers along his head flattening.

"I can make it hurt worse," said the Doctor flatly. "Now tell them to put their guns _down_."

"Do it," snapped McKinney, eyeing the two aliens with sudden, wary fear. The security men unhappily lowered their weapons to the floor. Inara nudged Simon, and they both moved the weapons, and themselves, out of the squad's reach. Simon bent to retrieve one of the guns, though he kept it held loosely by his side.

"You can't do this!" panted Vharaj. "I–I am a Makai Empath of the First Order! You haven't got the strength to–"

"To do what?" the Doctor purred. "To bind a Mokshar?" The Doctor shook his head. "It's true that the Academy's psychic training was only average at best." He stepped close to the trapped alien, beckoning him to bend close. With obvious reluctance, Vharaj complied. "But you're forgetting something, Vharaj," he said in the alien's ear. "_I_ am not average. Far from it. And I've spent the better part of a thousand years facing down the meanest, nastiest powers this Universe and a few others have to offer. I'm sorry, Vharaj, but by comparison, you just don't present that much of a challenge." He stepped back, and nodded to River. "Though I do admit that I couldn't have gotten past your defenses without some extremely competent help."

Vharaj glared furiously at him, and on the floor, Mal suddenly stirred. Inara suppressed the urge to go to him. It would not, she thought, be wise to place herself within the enraged alien's reach. "I still hold the human's mind, Doctor," Vharaj hissed. "If you do not release me _at once_, I will crush him."

The Doctor leaned forward, his voice dropping to an icy snarl. "Do that, Vharaj, and you will end your days _screaming_ in the deep places of _my_ mind."

The Mokshar recoiled. "Y-you wouldn't do that! You can't!"

"Why not? You would."

"B-but you're the Doctor!"

The Doctor's chuckle had an edge like swords. "Ah, yes, that argument. Heard _that_ one before. And you know me so well, do you, Vharaj? You called me a monster not long ago. But now–ah, _now_ you plead for the _Doctor_, the compassionate, merciful, pacifist Doctor.

"Yes, I think war is a fool's game. Yes, I believe life–all life–is precious. But tell me something, Vharaj–did you ever listen to my_enemies'_ tales of me? If you did, it's obvious you weren't paying attention. The Daleks do not have emotion, Vharaj. They don't know fear. But do you know what they called me? _Ka Faraq Gatri_. It means Destroyer of Worlds. I am the Bringer of Darkness, Vharaj. The Oncoming Storm. I've watched worlds and galaxies fall, and rise, and fall again. I fought the Vampires at the dawn of Creation, and I may yet witness the end of the Universe. I brought about the destruction of my own race, the deaths of my children, my grandchildren, my siblings, my friends, all in the name of peace, to save this Universe. So you tell me, Vharaj: _what do you think I am capable of?_"

Vharaj was silent. Inara, staring at the Doctor's face, wondered how she could ever have mistaken him for human. There was nothing human in his face now; instead she saw something ancient, and terrible. And, she thought, full of as much sorrow as rage.

"I don't like violence," the Doctor continued, his voice rough. "And I don't like causing pain. But know this, you who once called yourself healer and teacher: if you attempt to harm Malcolm Reynolds further, if you persist in your attempts to force him to your will, then I will cause you _such_ pain that you'll wish you'd burned at Arcadia!"

"Passing judgement, Doctor?" The Mokshar's voice was not quite steady, and he would not meet the Time Lord's eyes. "Do you then seek to force me to _your_ will?"

"No, Vharaj," said the Doctor softly. "The choice is yours. It is always yours." He suddenly looked impossibly weary. "But remember–so are the consequences yours. I warned you that I would stop you if you didn't give it up on your own. So here we are. You can choose to end this madness, or you can choose to deal with _me_."

Vharaj met his gaze then, and held it for a long moment. Then he lowered his head. "Very well, Doctor."

On the floor, the faint movement Inara had seen in Mal stopped, and he seemed to sag deeper into apparent unconsciousness. The Doctor caught River's eye and nodded toward Mal. The girl knelt down next to him.

"You can't do this!" cried McKinnon. "You're just going to let him ruin our plans?"

Beside Inara, Simon made a small sound that might have been a very soft 'uh-oh.'

The Doctor, who had been largely ignoring Vharaj's allies in favor of the alien, turned his attention to the former Browncoats. "And just what is it you're going to do about it, then?" he asked coolly. "Bearing in mind, gentlemen, that I haven't got many reasons for viewing _any_ of you with a merciful eye."

"Who the hell do you think you _are_?" snarled McKinnon. He reached into his coat–

–and froze at the sound of a gun's safety clicking off. Inara regarded him coldly down the length of one of the security squad's automatic rifles. No one had even noticed her picking it up. "Don't," she said. "I have even less a reason to like you than he does, and I don't share his distaste for guns." _Not where Mal is concerned, anyway_, she added silently. _Not after what you've done to him._ Beside her, belatedly, Simon raised his own weapon meaningfully at the security squad.

"And frankly," added the Doctor, "I'm not of much mind to stop her if she decides to shoot you. Weapons, gentlemen, on the floor. Let's not make this any nastier than it needs to be." He stepped forward and plucked the comm from Rhineholdt's hands. "Thank you," he said politely, and spent a few seconds fiddling with the frequency. "Jayne?"

The comm erupted with ear-splitting static and shrieks–the sound of an explosion transmitted over a small radio. The Doctor winced. After a moment Jayne's voice said, "Yeah?"

"How's it going?"

"Not so bad," came the reply. "Zoe's pickin' off stragglers from the rooftop, and the cops have just about cleaned up the rest."

"How many were there?"

"About fifty. But with Reavers, that's like a hundred."

"Are the casualties very heavy?" Inara could see the Doctor hold his breath, fearing the answer.

"Not too bad. Gotta say, Paquin's cops aren't too bad at this. We've got maybe six dead, and another dozen wounded, but considerin' the other side I call that a win. Thought it might go bad, but once I got me some grenades it was all shiny."

The Doctor closed his eyes briefly, but said, "I'm glad to hear it. Good work." He raised his eyes to the men, who were all staring at him in varying degrees of horror, fury and–in Rhineholdt's case–wary respect. "So, then. What was that about your plans?"

McKinney glared, but one of the other man put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

"I should think you lot would recognize defeat when you see it," said the Doctor nastily. He glanced at Vharaj. "How many more are there in reserve?"

The Mokshar hesitated, as if considering not giving an answer, but then he caught the Doctor's eye and said, "Fifty more, in stasis, that I haven't conditioned yet."

"Hmm. Simon, would you kindly retrieve my coats from the security man there? And my screwdriver. Thank you." He caught the items as Simon tossed them to him, shrugging back into suit jacket and draping the coat over a nearby chair before crossing to the control panel on the desk Vharaj had earlier used to free his pet Reavers. "Let me see now..." He tapped the screwdriver against his teeth. "Ah, here we are. Environmental controls. Let's put those poor monsters out of their misery, shall we?" He pushed some buttons, then turned the screwdriver on the panel. It whirred, and there were responding beeps from the machinery. "There," he said. "And just to make sure no one _else_ tries anything clever with the computers..." He thumbed something on his screwdriver. It whined again, and a small puff of smoke erupted from the panel. "Now, then–"

"Doctor." River's voice was very soft, almost a whisper, but it brought the Doctor's head around as though she had it on a string. "I can't find him," she said.

The Doctor dropped to his knees beside Mal, reaching out to touch his face. Inara's hands tightened on her weapon as she watched his face.

After a long moment, the Doctor drew a harsh breath. "He's dead."


	29. Chapter 29: A Price to be Paid

**Author's Note: Yes, I know, I'm evil. I would like to say that this little 'incident' was planned fairly early on in the story, mostly because I had things to say and I couldn't think of a better way to say it. :) I quite understand and respect if some dislike it, and I do appreciate hearing opinions one way or the other. If you don't like it, tell my why, please! While I may not (and probably won't) change anything, it's still good to know what others perceive as a mistake or weak writing, so I can keep it in mind in future writing. :D Thank you for your honest reviews!**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "I'm not really a cat person. Once you've been threatened by one in a nun's wimple it kind of takes the joy out of it." --Ten, "Fear Her"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Jayne: Oh, I think you might wanna reconsider that last part. See, I married me a powerful ugly creature.  
Mal: How can you say that? How can you shame me in front of new people?  
Jayne: If I could make you purtier, I would.  
Mal: You are not the man I met a year ago. --Jayne and Mal, "Our Mrs. Reynolds"**

* * *

Once I knew all the tales  
Its time to turn back time  
Follow the pale moonlight  
Once I wished for this night  
Faith brought me here  
Its time to cut the rope and fly...  
–Nightwish, "Dark Chest of Wonders"

The Doctor was on his feet and moving before the words fully registered in Inara's brain, and so his hands closed over the rifle, pulling it out of her hands before she thought to fire it at Mal's murderers. She stared up into his face, into the strange dark eyes. "Don't let go yet, Inara," he said softly.

"He's dead," she whispered, and felt the world begin to crack.

He touched her face gently, but she saw the fury in his face as he turned away. "Vharaj, _what have you done_?" he roared, tossing aside the gun.

Had the Mokshar been human, he might have turned pale. "It didn't work," he said quietly. "Y-you were right. It was different, with the Reavers–they were nearly mindless–or with someone who was caught unawares and only asked to do small things. But he wouldn't cooperate..."

"And so you forced your way in. You tore his mind loose from its moorings and cast it adrift." The Doctor's fists clenched, and it was with visible effort that he forced himself to relax.

Numb, Inara moved slowly toward Mal's body, to kneel on the carpet beside him and turn him over, pulling his head into her lap. He was so pale, so still. She remembered the awful moment, all those months ago, when Saffron had lied, had said she was Malcolm Reynolds' widow. The terror that had driven Inara to his cabin to find him lying still and pale on the floor, and the relief when she realized he was only drugged. There was no such relief waiting for her now. He wasn't breathing. There was no pulse beneath her fingers. But his skin was still warm...

"Fix it, Vharaj," the Doctor growled from somewhere overhead.

"What? I can't–"

"You can. You said it yourself–a Makai Empath of the First Order. That means you were trained in the Resurrection Ritual."

Silence. Then, "If you are aware of the Ritual, Doctor, then you know what it entails."

"Yes, I do."

"But it must be a life willingly given and I–"

"You aren't willing. Yes, Vharaj, that's very obvious. But _I_ am willing. Your skill, my life. And you won't even have to deal with me afterwards, will you?"

"Why would you do this? You barely know this man. You would die for a human you don't even know?"

"_You_, obviously, don't know me at _all_, Vharaj. I'm beginning to wonder if I ever knew you. But that doesn't matter. You _will_ do this, or I'm going to get _really_ angry."

Inara finally realized what she was hearing, and she stared up at the Doctor in shock. "What are you saying?"

He dropped to one knee beside her. "The Mokshar healers were among the greatest in the Universe," he said quietly. "And the very best of their healers were trained in a certain ritual that, under the right circumstances, could bring back the dead. I saw it done once, during the War. A very great healer performed the Ritual to restore life to a child caught in the crossfire of a battle." He glanced toward Vharaj, his eyes unreadable. "The price is another life, willingly given. In that case, the healer chose to offer her own life, but as I understand it another can also choose to pay."

"It shouldn't be you," said Inara.

He lifted his eyebrows. "Then who should it be? I'm not about to let_you_ do it, Inara."

"Why not?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Setting aside my issues with chivalry, I also would rather be dead than explain to Mal, if this works, why the woman he loves is dead. He would not thank you if his life came at the cost of your own."

"But you–"

The Doctor smiled his sweet, crooked smile. "Death has been my companion these long centuries. She's a patient lady, and I've kept her waiting far too long." He leaned forward, kissed Inara gently on the forehead. "And it will be worth it." He got back to his feet and turned to face Vharaj. "Well?"

"What if I refuse?" The alien's crest was completely flattened to his skull. He looked, Inara thought, completely miserable. The consequences of his choices finally sinking in at last?

"Why should you? I'm the one paying the price, not you. And," the Doctor added, "you might look at it as a chance to atone for some of your recent sins. Cleanse your soul a little, maybe?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? Think about it, Vharaj. You're a Mokshar. You _know_ what you've done is wrong–your own biology is telling you so."

The alien's eyes widened. "I–I–"

"Didn't think about that little hitch, did you? Forgot that your people's beliefs are, quite literally, hardwired into your own DNA? And that turning your back on it has consequences a lot closer to home than you might like. Keep it up, Vharaj, and I bet you'll be dead inside a year, killed by your own sin." The Doctor clicked his tongue. "Now _that's_ religion for you."

McKinney shifted, looking as though he were going to start protesting again, but as the Doctor's fierce gaze pinned him he hunched his shoulders and looked away. "Simon," said the Doctor. "Keep an eye on that lot. I don't want anyone to try anything stupid. Oh," he added, "and as to what you and I discussed earlier–the data disks are waiting for you in the TARDIS. And River–please lock her up and put her somewhere to gather dust, will you?"

River nodded solemnly. "Karma works," she said. "You'll see."

The Doctor turned back to Vharaj. "So what will it be, Vharaj? Time to make a choice again–and you'd better make the right one."

The alien spread his hands. "I will do as you ask, Doctor." His eyes flickered–he looked strangely thoughtful. "But...you will have to release my mind for me to perform the ritual."

The Doctor held his gaze for a long, long moment. "All right," he said. Nothing outwardly visible occurred, but after a moment Vharaj let out something that sounded very much like a sigh of relief. "Now what?"

Vharaj stood silent, head bowed. "I could use this opportunity to turn against you, Doctor," he said finally.

"You could. Are you going to?" The Doctor's chin lifted, though he remained otherwise still.

"...No. You–you are correct. I–I have placed my soul and self in–in danger. To betray you now...would only damn me further." He looked up then. "I just wanted to stop the Alliance's injustices, Doctor!" he cried. "To make up for my failures in the War! How is that so different from what you do?"

"Free will, Vharaj," said the Doctor gently. "There is nothing more precious in all of Creation. You have to give your enemies the chance to redeem themselves. Even when they choose otherwise. That, my old friend, makes all the difference."

Vharaj nodded. "I...think I understand." He straightened then, feathers ruffling along skull and shoulders. "Are you sure about this, Doctor?"

"I am."

"Then we had better begin. There–there isn't much time."

* * *

Moving carefully, Zoe picked her way across the debris to where Commander Twofalls sat, no longer neat and dapper, covered in blood and looking numb. She eased her bulk down next to him. "How are your men?" She'd heard Jayne's report to the Doctor over her comm. _I just hope Mal's all right._

"Seven dead," he said softly. "One died of his wounds before we got him to the hospital. But it looks as though the other wounded will pull through all right."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "There would be many, many more dead without your warning," he said. He let out a soft huff of bitter laughter. "I grew up in the Core, you know. Before I came out here, I thought Reavers were just campfire stories. But I've seen vids of colonies hit by them, and I've been out there in person, burying the dead."

"I wish they were just stories," said Zoe, thinking of Wash.

Twofalls took a deep breath and added, "I checked up on your identity before we came out here."

Zoe went very still.

"That was an extremely convincing badge, you know," he continued. "I wish I knew where you'd gotten it. And, of course, there are a few wanted posters floating around. You're a very striking woman, Corporal Alleyne. It's difficult to forget a face like yours, particularly when you spend as much time as I do behind a desk and there's not a lot to look at other than badly spelled reports."

Very slowly, she allowed her hand to inch toward her holstered pistol.

He turned to face her. "As I said, though–without your warning, many more people would be dead. So...thank you." He held out his hand.

Zoe stared at it, then back at his face, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going put handcuffs on you, I promise," he said with a tired smile. "Anyway, I have the feeling that you'd shoot me dead before I got that far."

She took his hand. "Probably not dead," she said. "Not today, and not after what we've just been through." She eyed him thoughtfully. "I'm curious, though–why did you believe me, if you knew who I was?"

"Aside from the very large, very scary man you had backing you up? Because I've seen the Miranda vids, and I believe them. I'm a cop, you know. And," he added, "I could not for the life of me see what profit there was in walking into a police station and demanding backup like that. So I decided there might be some truth to your story."

"That was quite a risk, Commander. Not the sort of thing I've ever seen in an Alliance cop."

He shrugged. "Clearly, you've been hanging around with the wrong kind of cop. I'm really not interested in politics, and aside from impersonating a federal officer, you haven't committed any crimes around here. That I'm aware of." He looked past her shoulder. "_Rung tse fwo tzoo bao yo wuo muhn._ It's the damn medic again. She's going to insist on tying me down until she's sure I'm not wounded."

Zoe looked over her shoulder and saw a small, plump, and very determined looking older woman bearing down on them. "You don't want her to?"

"I've got a million other things to do if I want to see my bed sometime in the next forty-eight hours," groused the commander. "And _she's_ going to want me to put it all off while she stitches up every damn scratch."

Zoe looked at him. "I hope one of those things wasn't issuin' an arrest warrant for me and my crewmate," she said.

"I plan to play dumb for all I'm worth. Anyway, I'm far more interested in the terrorists behind those Reavers–since I expect that was one of the things you were truthful about."

"In that case, Commander, I'd be happy to distract the medic for you. She looks like a grandmother. I'm about to become a mother. I'm sure she'll be far more interested in me than you."

Relief rose off Twofalls like steam. "Really? I could kiss you."

"Please don't. I barely know you." But she smiled as she allowed him to pull her to her feet.

He turned to go, but paused. "It was an honor to meet you, Corporal Alleyne," he said. "And an honor to fight beside you."

Zoe studied him for a moment, then gave him a tired salute. "And you, Commander. Never thought I'd meet a cop I liked."

"Why, thank you. Though I'm not sure what that says about me, as an officer of the law..."

As she turned to greet the medic, her thoughts turned again to the rest of the crew. _Why haven't I heard about Mal yet? What's going on?_

**Chinese Translations:**

_**Rung tse fwo tzoo bao yo wuo muhn**_**: Merciful God, please take me away**


	30. Chapter 30: Sacrifice

**A/N: (sigh) I can't think of anything to say today. Which, I suppose, is what I get for staying up until 2am...  
**

**Doctor Quote of the Day: "By the ancient rites of combat, I forbid you to scavenge here for the rest of Time. When you go back to the stars and tell others of this planet, when you tell them of its riches, its people, its potential — when you talk of the Earth, then make sure you tell them this. It. Is. _Defended_!" --Ten, "The Christmas Invasion"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day:**

**Jayne: This here's suicide. You do know that, don't you? You really think you can mount a two-man frontal assault on Niska's skyplex and live?  
Wash: Technically, it's a one-man/one-woman assault. A unisex. --Jayne and Wash, "War Stories"**

* * *

I may be numberless, I may be innocent  
I may know many things, I may be ignorant  
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands  
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands  
I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times  
Reborn as fortune's child to judge another's crimes  
Or wear this pilgrim's cloak, or be a common thief  
I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief...  
–Sting, "A Thousand Years"

Mal opened his eyes, and discovered that it didn't hurt any more. More than that, he recognized where he was. He sat up slowly, taking in the familiar surroundings of his childhood bedroom. Everything was exactly as it lived in his memory, from the faded old quilt on the bed to the few books he'd actually _liked_, to the Bible on his night stand. Out the window, through the worn curtains, he could see the horse corral. If this was Vharaj's idea of a mind game, he had no idea what the alien was getting at. _This_ place held only security, and old, sad memories.

And yet...this didn't _feel_ like something in his head. Despite the fact that he _knew_ that his mother's ranch–like everything else on Shadow–was nothing but a blackened, bombed-out ruin this was perhaps the most_real_ anything he'd experienced had ever felt.

"_Alice Through the Looking Glass_. Odd book, but I always liked it. Lewis Carroll was a bit of a nutter. Mind you, he made a good tea."

Mal twisted around on the bed to see the Doctor standing on the other side of the room. He _knew_ it was the Doctor, in the same way he felt that this creepifying, real-even-though-it-couldn't-be thing was really happening. But the man standing a few feet away from him didn't _look_ much like the Doctor he knew, for all that he seemed to be tall and skinny and wearing a suit of some kind. In fact, Mal realized, if someone asked him to describe exactly the man before him, he wasn't sure he could find words that made any kind of sense. He _saw_ him, perceived him in a way he wouldn't have thought possible. He saw...

...Something more than ancient. He saw eternal. He saw wisdom, and foolishness, compassion and cruelty. Towering arrogance, but still the capacity to be humbled, to admit a mistake. A child's eternal wonder, and a desire to hope and believe, but battered and stained almost past the ability to forgive. Mercy, torn to shreds by tides of war and darkness. A man, full of weakness and frailty and sin–but for all that, he shone like the heart of a star.

"Well now," breathed the Doctor, staring at Mal in return. "This is something unexpected." There was something like awe, or fear, in his voice. "It seems we've been given a gift."

"What_are_ you?" Mal demanded, feeling that same strange, fearful awe steal over him.

"I'm..._me_," said the Doctor. "And...I think you're really seeing that. The whole picture. What a curious thing..." He was still staring at Mal in obvious fascination.

"The whole–what in the name of _suo yo duh doh shr dang _is going _on_ here?"

"Come on." The Doctor held out a glowing hand. Mal eyed it suspiciously, but took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The Doctor steered him toward the full length mirror that vain-teenager Mal had hung on his closet door. "Look in the mirror."

And Mal did. Even had he considered refusing, the gentle but inexorable pressure of that voice, of the hands on his shoulders, compelled obedience. His own reflection stared back at him. It _had_ to be his reflection, though he couldn't possibly...

"Tell me what you see, Malcolm Reynolds," said the Doctor's voice in his ear. "Better yet, tell me what you _really_ see."

"That can't be me." Mal stared in fascination. "But I–you–we're the _same_." Well, not quite the same. But he saw something as shining as the Doctor, looking back at him from the mirror. Perhaps a little less battered and stained, and the darkness there did not run so deep–the result of a shorter life, maybe?–but equally glorious and every bit as ageless and eternal.

"Say rather alike," the Doctor said. "But you are correct." There was no mistaking the awe in his voice.

"How is that possible?" demanded Mal. Some part of him felt that he ought to be upset, or at least reeling in shock, but he wasn't. He was just...really, really curious. "I'm human. You're...somethin' else."

"Yes. And yet for all that, Malcolm Reynolds, we are brothers, you and I."

The Doctor stepped back, and Mal turned away from the mirror and its reflection to face him. "Brothers?"

"This, then," said the Doctor, "is one of the great secrets of Creation. One of its great Truths: that the souls of all sentient beings are brothers. Drawn from the same blueprint, formed by the same...power, or force of nature. Or Hand." He smiled, self-mocking. "I haven't a human's courage, to give such a thing a name. My beliefs have always been...rather vaguer than that." He spread his hands. "Count yourself fortunate, Malcolm Reynolds, for here indeed is sacred ground."

Mal glanced over his shoulder, meeting again the gaze of his own soul's self. "You've...seen this before, haven't you?"

"Once," the Doctor admitted. "At another time in my life when I stood closer to true death than I ever had before. It's...not something I usually remember. Too...sacred, I think." He smiled, and Mal recognized in it something of the man he knew in the–what? He couldn't call it the 'real' world. _This_ was real. Everything else was just...point of view. "Like you, there was someone there to...explain things. And to send me back."

"Send...? What's happening?"

"You're dying, Mal."

"...Oh. Hunh." Somehow, that didn't bother him as much as he thought it should. On the other hand, he thought, recalling a torture room, it wasn't the first time he'd died. "Then why are you here?"

The Doctor sat down on the edge of the bed. "To send you back," he said. "As was once done for me."

"You can do that?"

"Not...usually, no. These are...special circumstances."

"So, what, you guide me back?"

"No, Mal." The expression on the other man's face was wistful. "That isn't how it works. Death's door is opened, and someone has to go through. I'm here to take your place."

This time Mal _did_ feel something very like shock, and he sat down himself on the bed. "_What_?"

"There are rules, you see. Some things, it seems, are even older than Time–and let me tell you just how scary _that_ is, to a Time Lord. But this is one of them: a life for a life."

"I...can't let you do that."

"Yes, you can," said the Doctor gently. "Think of it...as a gift." He grinned, full of–as Mal's mother might have described it–mischief and vinegar. "Puts me at the top of the heap, as far as gifts, doesn't it? But it doesn't make me unique, you know. You've offered the same gift yourself, many times before."

"How can you know that?"

"It's written on your soul. All of us, I think, face the choice at least once in our lives, to offer our life for someone else's, in some form or another. A mother does it each time she gives birth. A father does so in the care and protection of his family. It's sacrifice, Mal. Most of the time, it's only a little thing, a small choice, a service to someone else given without expectation of payment or recompense. Sometimes it really is offering yourself up to death. Whatever it is, in making the sacrifice our souls _shine_, brighter than all the stars in the universe."

"But...you'll die. And I'll have to live with that."

"I didn't say it was an easy gift. But...if it helps..." He looked away, out the window. "I'm ready for death. I've been ready for a long time–you might even say that I'd welcome it. My family is gone. I'm ready to join them, Mal. And this death, here and now, is of my choosing. I can go knowing that I've done something good. You...are still needed."

Mal thought of Inara. Of little Kaylee. Of his poor, broken albatross. Of Zoe and her unborn child, and the silent promise he'd made at Wash's grave. Of Simon, more his brother than either one of them cared to admit. Even of Jayne, rough and crude, but who seemed to view Mal as something like a compass. (Admittedly a compass to be argued with and made fun of, mostly, but a compass nonetheless.) He'd always thought, when the time came, that he'd die for _them_, in a manner that would help ensure they'd go on. This...wasn't that time. He hadn't chosen this; Vharaj had forced it on him. The Doctor was right. He was...needed.

"Gorram high price," was all he could say.

"It always is," agreed the Doctor. "But you and I know that those who stand and fight will always pay it gladly.

Something around them _shifted_, and Mal sensed something like a breeze. The winds of eternity, he thought, but in this place felt no fear. The Doctor got to his feet. "Time to go," he said softly, his eyes shining. He paused, though, and turned to Mal, and the radiance of his soul's self seemed to intensify with sorrow. "Take a last piece of advice from an old fool," he said. "Don't turn away love when it is gifted to you, Malcolm Reynolds. I have done so...far too many times, and I regret it more than anything else." He smiled then, radiantly, sorrow chased away. "It's been an honor to know you, Captain Reynolds."

Mal found his voice. "And you...Doctor."

And the Doctor stepped forward, toward a door Mal could only just sense...

...And then _something_ crashed into the unreal reality, and everything around them shattered into light and color...

* * *

**Chinese Translations:**

_**suo yo duh doh shr dang**_**: all that is proper**


	31. Chapter 31: Redemption

**Updated Author's Note: And last but not least, I correct the gaping problem that's bugged me since I finished the darn thing: the fact that the police were inexplicably oblivious to Vharaj and his mad-scientist lab. Easy enough to fix with a longer conversation and some more Chinese. For those who grumbled over Mal's death/resurrection and the Doctor's-sacrifice-prevented-by-a-repentant-villain...well, we are all allowed cliches from time to time. I don't recall stating my personal fanfic rules previously, so here they are: I stay in canon. Mal, so far as anyone knows, is still alive and kickin', and the Doctor, obviously, had to get on with Series Three after the events of this story. So of _course_ neither of them could die, but I really had that bit about the soul and sacrifice to get off my chest, and so you had Plot Device # 67 to put up with. I ain't apologizin'. ;) And I would like to direct your attention to the end of the Series Four episode "The Poison Sky" in which the Doctor marches off to heroically sacrfice himself, but spends so much time dithering one of the villains makes a (rather unbelievable) leap to redemption and trades places with him. I loved Series Four, but there were times I could have slapped the writers for making the Doctor _dither_ so bloody much. (I mean, honestly: he_ knows_ certain baddies are never, ever going to listen to him, so why on earth would he continue attempting to reason with them? The only saving grace in the two major Series Four events where this occurred (the Sontarans in "The Poison Sky" and the Doctor getting all angry with Ten 2.0 over the destruction of the Daleks in "Journey's End"--and apologies to anyone who hasn't seen them yet) was that there wasn't an actual attack going on at the time, so people weren't dying while he dithered.**

**Sorry. Had to get that out of my system. :p Had this been a story with original characters, well, I've no qualms about killing off characters and leaving them dead if that's what the story requires. But as they're not _really_ my characters...:D**

**Original Author's Note: Yeah, by this point I've run out of clever things to say. Particularly as it's the first day of classes, and I'd far rather have a nap...On the other hand, I'm taking an opinion poll for my next project. You opinion may or may not have any influence on my decision as to what to write next, but since at the moment I'm dithering, it likely will. :) I've got two tales planned: One is a "Pirates" fic--or, rather, a Norrington-of-the-Caribbean fic (since he's my favorite character in the Pirates movies and I figured out a way to resurrect him that makes sense within the world and doesn't detract his noble (if extremely depressing to me) sacrifice in the third film.) ; the other is an all-original characters fic set in the Masque of the Red Death Gothic Earth/Planescape settings, featuring a clairvoiyant stage magician and a tiefling from Sigil. :) Input is welcome, and may be ignored if a better plot bunny comes along. ;D**

** Doctor Quote of the Day: "Doctor, beware; your manner appeals only to the homicidal side of my nature." --The Captain, "The Pirate Planet"**

**Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Mal: Listen... She swore to obey?  
Wash: Well, no, not... But that's just my point! You she obeys! She obeys you! There's obeying going on right under my nose! --Mal and Wash, "War Stories"**

**One Further Author's Note: I am actually working (sort of) on both the above mentioned stories. But between Real Life and the creative burnout resultant from finishing _this_ story, I'm still chipping away at writer's block. It's not _bad_ writer's block, although it is of long duration, much to my frustration. (I want to write, darnit!) Mostly, I think it's down to the trying-to-graduate-when-the-damned-university-cut-off-my-financial-aid blues (my thanks, however, to my dearest friend, who is ensuring that I complete university so I can come and hang out with her), and various family crises demanding my attention. (But hey, I'm an aunt! And my nephew is the cutest thing ever, despite being a Horrible-Bed-Monster and a Slobber-Monster!) But do not despair! I will, eventually, have further work for your delectation. I'm even working on a new Doctor story, though it is _not_, I'm sorry to say, a sequel to this tale. In the event I ever do write a sequel to this story, it will probably involve Twofalls and the Doctor, or possibly the Doctor's daughter Jenny (the plot bunny for this is being elusive) and the crew of _Serenity_ may not even appear at all. I also just got a bunny for a tale wherein Wash, pre-joining up with the crew, encounters the Doctor. But a direct sequel to the events of this story...doesn't seem too likely right now. That just seems to be how it falls. I can't come up with any plot ideas involving the crew, alas...but perhaps one day I shall.  
**

**Anyway, enough babbling. :)  
**

**______________________________  
**

Heaven bend to take my hand

And lead me through the fire

Be the long awaited answer

To a long and painful fight

Truth be told I tried my best

But somewhere long the way

I got caught up in all there was to offer

But the cost was so much more than I could bear

–Sarah McLachlan, "Fallen"

The worst hangover of Mal's life had been the summer he turned eighteen when he, in some gorram stupid idea of demonstrating adult-ness had gone out and gotten into his Uncle Hap's store of apple moonshine. His ma's complete lack of sympathy the morning after had not noticeably helped.

This...felt worse. And that was saying something. Felt as though someone had been stirring his brains with a stick...

And there was something else, nagging just at the edge of his brainpan. Something had happened. Something wonderful, and terrible, hovering right beyond conscious memory...

He sat bolt upright, ignoring both the shrieking protests of his muscles and the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He caught a confused, blurred glimpse of Inara's face, and River's, before his eyes fell on the still shape of blue suit and unruly brown hair a few feet away. His breath stopped. _No, that can't have been __**real**__..._

The bulk of blue cloth stirred, and the Doctor pushed himself up onto his forearms, groaning and clutching his head. "What the _hell_...?" His eyes lifted, and met Mal's, and his eyebrows snapped together in a frown. "Hang on, this isn't right..." He pushed himself up further. "My God..." he breathed. "_Vharaj_..."

Mal followed his gaze, and saw a pitiful heap of blue-brown feathers. Just beyond stood McKinney and his pals, staring down in shock.

"Mal?"

He turned to see Inara, her great dark eyes full of tears. He felt vaguely guilty–dammit, he'd gone and made her _cry_...But then she was in his arms, holding on so tightly he wasn't sure where she ended and he began. And there was River, his albatross, smiling and throwing her arms around them both. Simon was there a moment later, joining the heap that was rapidly threatening to smother Mal. "If y'all don't get off me, you're gonna need another miracle," he gasped, but he was smiling. He didn't even really mind Simon, though he was far more interested in hugging Inara, thank you _so_ much.

But there was something else that needed answering. Mal disentangled himself from his crewmates–and where were the other three?–and climbed painfully to his feet. He crossed to where the Doctor knelt beside the Mokshar, his head bowed. McKinney and the others backed nervously away as Mal approached. He ignored them. "He's dead, ain't he?"

The Doctor nodded, and lifted grave eyes to Mal's. "It seems, in the end, he chose to let his soul shine."

He said nothing more, but he didn't need to. Mal, with a flash of memory that brought chills to his skin, realized what the Doctor had meant by 'too sacred to remember.' Something impossible to put words to–and he knew he would never speak of it with anyone else. Even the Doctor, who had been there. "Does it make it right, what he did before?"

"No. But it is, perhaps, an atonement of sorts. I...hope it's so." He reached out to touch the dead man's crest. "I forgive you," he said softly.

Mal offered the Doctor a hand. As he pulled the other man up he said, "Do you really mean that? That you forgive him?"

"You know, I think I really do," said the Doctor, looking faintly surprised. "I...didn't think I had any forgiveness left in me." He smiled. "I think I may have learned something, too, Malcolm Reynolds."

"As I understand it, Doc, that's something of the point of bein' here."

"You're probably right. And don't call me 'Doc.'" He glanced over at the dead Vharaj's partners-in-atrocity. "Now what about you lot, hmmm?"

"_Please_, let me handle them."

They turned to see a small, slender man in an extremely filthy uniform enter from the hall. Behind him came Zoe, Jayne, and Kaylee, and with them a number of other men–also in bloody, stained uniforms. None of them looked terribly friendly.

Mal leaned toward the Doctor. "Are those _cops_?"

"Looks like. Try to restrain your urge to run. You know how policemen are–if you run, they'll _have _to chase." He grinned.

Zoe, with the other two in tow, drew to a stop in front of Mal. "Sir," she said. "I'm glad to see you're all right." Her eyes fell on McKinney and the others and widened slightly as she recognized them. She was, Mal reflected, faster on the uptake than he was. Which would be why he valued her so much as a second... Her eyes fell on the alien's corpse and widened further.

"I am now," Mal said, glancing at the corpse on the floor. _Not an easy gift, after all. And having an enemy pay the price is, in it's own twisty way, almost more a burden._ Forgiving what Vharaj had done to him would, he knew, take it's own time–but the sacrifice meant that he _could_ forgive. _I wonder if that means my soul will shine the brighter?_ Scary thought. Now, he realized, was not the time to think on it, or he might start having hysterics, and that wouldn't be good for his image. "Beats being dead." _I think._ He saw Kaylee grinning at him, and realized that he had his arm around Inara, and hers was around his waist. He shot his mechanic a look, promising dire retribution if she _dared_ comment, and she only grinned the broader. "Zoe, what are you doin' running around with _cops_?"

"Seemed a good idea at the time, sir," she said, dragging her eyes off Vharaj. "As it happened, they were useful."

Jayne grunted agreement. "Not bad, even. Did better'n I'd have expected in a fight against Reavers."

Mal's eyebrows shot up. "What the hell were you doin' fighting _Reavers?_"

"You weren't aware of the plan, sir?"

"No, Zoe, I was busy being dead. I'm not kidding." He eyed the little police officer, who was herding McKinney and company into restraints and ordering his men, in a sharp voice, to stop staring at the thing on the floor and pay attention.. McKinney looked thoroughly shell-shocked. _Nothin' like defeat up close, eh, General? _But McKinney and the others, he realized, really weren't worth his time, energy, or hatred. They weren't worth much of _anything_, and so Mal turned his attention back to the policeman, as an object of more interest. Mal could now see, under the blood and grime on his uniform, that the officer was wearing a commander's insignia. "Are we gonna get arrested?"

"Not so much," said Zoe. "Commander Twofalls seems to be...a good cop. And a smart one."

"Really? I didn't know they existed." He studied the commander with renewed interest.

The Doctor looked puzzled. "Why should he arrest you? The psychic paper _did_ work, didn't it?"

"It did, but like I said–he's a smart cop. He recognized me. Seems, sir," she said to Mal, "that you aren't the only one to get a wanted poster out of Miranda. But luck was on our side, for once, and he believed our story even if he didn't believe we were federal agents."

The Doctor looked horrified. "You see, this is why I _hate_ plans," he muttered. "Plans are for _villains_, to be mucked up."

Mal felt somewhat horrified his own self. "What _else_ did you–no. You know what? I don't want to know."

The man Zoe had identified as Twofalls came over to them. He fixed Mal with such a penetrating stare that Mal began to have serious doubts about his second's assurances that they weren't going to get arrested. "Captain Reynolds," said Twofalls. "You are not a man I ever expected to meet."

"We could pretend you haven't," suggested Mal. He was beginning to sag, he realized. Inara was holding him up more than displaying any kind of affection. He was, nevertheless, extremely grateful. She made a great prop.

"That's the official intent," the police commander said affably. "I told your second-in-command that, as a cop, I hate politics, and as far as I can tell that is the overriding reason the Alliance wants you." He glanced over at his men and their new detainees. "Anyway, I can certainly claim that ex-General McKinney and a number of other former Independent military leaders involved in a horrific terrorist plot are _much _bigger fish." He frowned. "And I'll be very interested to learn just how they set it up right under my _nose_," he growled.

Jayne breathed a soft profanity. "There's some kinda gorram huge price on their heads, ain't there?"

"Jayne," said Zoe wearily.

"Just sayin' is all."

Twofalls looked amused. "As a matter of fact, they do."

Jayne scowled. "I suppose you're gonna claim it, too," he grumbled.

"Actually, I can't, legally." Ignoring Jayne's shocked expression he continued, "but I expect I can pass it on to an...anonymous informant. As it were. Although I _will_ divert a portion of it to the families of the men killed today. I owe them that much, at least."

Mal blinked, and wondered if maybe he _had_ died and gone to heaven. Their luck was _never_ this good. "Are you _serious_?"

The commander raised his eyebrows. "_What_ kind of cops are you accustomed to dealing with?"

"You...probably don't want to know." _Money like that would keep us flyin' for __**months**__. A year, even. And with no begging Badger for a job, either. Oh, Badger...there's a problem there I'm gonna have to deal with, seein' as we went and got his alien killed..._

"At any rate, Captain Reynolds, whatever your actual profession may be..." Twofalls sighed. "You seem willing to do the right thing, whatever the cost. I know about Miranda, and I can read between the lines. And this..." he gestured, and Mal decided he meant Vharaj's plot, and not the room. "This confirms your, ah, good intentions, to my mind." He smiled. "Seems that for today, at least, you're a big damn hero."

"I try not to make a habit of it," said Mal, fuzzily. Exhaustion was beginning to blur things around the edges. "It's really bad for your health."

"Just try and keep a low profile, hmm? I'd hate to be _ordered_ to arrest you." He allowed himself, at last, to glance towards the dead alien. "Though _that_ begs explanation."

"It's much too complicated," said the Doctor, interposing himself between Twofalls and Vharaj's body. "Best not to open that can of worms, or your government will want to lock us _all_ up."

The commander grunted. "If that's what I think it is..." A faintly worried expression crept into his eyes as he looked around the lab. "I'm not sure I _can_ hide it. This is...big."

"No, it isn't," the Doctor assured him. "Give me a couple of hours, and this is all just a bad dream. I think the original story is good enough, don't you? That this _kuh wu _lot," he jerked his head toward the handcuffed ex-Independent leaders, "corralled a bunch of Reavers somehow and turned them loose. But you–being a _very_ good policeman–had already begun an investigation into Renier Enterprises and showed up to do a raid just in time to prevent the Reavers from attacking civilians. And you destroyed those still being held captive before anyone could let _them_ loose as well."

"An investigation?" Twofalls looked amused. "In hindsight? _Bai lih mohn._"

"Should be very easy," said the Doctor. "I can give you all the files you need, and you can create the data-trail from there."

"You, sir," said the commander, "whoever you are, strike me as very _wei shian dohn woo_."

"Just trying to help."

"I think I'll be happier to see you gone," said Twofalls. He glanced around the lab again. "Although I will give you the two hours you ask for. Wave me the files, and I'll get my assistant right on it. She's _jing chai _at imaginative report writing."

The Doctor grinned. "Brilliant."

"Make Renier Enterprises un-landlock _Serenity_," said Kaylee, "and we'll slip off real quiet-like." She had, Mal was glad to see, stopped _grinning _at him and attached herself to Simon instead.

"I'm...not sure I can move," said Mal. "Any chance of being dragged back to the Docks?"

"I'll go you one better," said the Doctor, "and give you a lift in my ship." He tugged a chain from around his neck, a small key dangling from it, and tossed it to Kaylee. "She's just up the hall."

Mal looked at Kaylee. "Did he just say his ship was _in_ the building?"

"Wait 'til you see it, Cap'n! It's _incredible._"

"It's a gorram freaky box, is what it is," muttered Jayne.

He felt someone else take his free arm, and he looked down to see River smiling up at him. "Karma," she said simply. "Works."

"Seems it does, little albatross," said Mal, reflecting that River made an awful lot of _sense_ when a man was half-dead from exhaustion and...being dead. "Now...let's go _home_."

**Chinese Translations:**

_**kuh wu: **_**despicable**

_**Bai lih mohn: **_**wishful thinking**

_**wei shian dohn woo**_**: dangerous person**


	32. Chapter 32: The Meaning of Freedom

**Author's Note: Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's been a wild and very fun ride, and now, at last, this tale comes to its end. I'm quite proud of it, though I would never claim that it is without flaws. Some time in the future, I may go back and fix some of those plot holes--yes, I realize now that I missed the police's reaction to the dead Vharaj. I had the flu--that's my excuse and I'm stickin' to it!--so let's just say that the Doctor had covered the body with his great long coat, yes? (And he would NEVER let ANYONE stuff and display an alien corpse. That's so...tacky. And I don't think Mal would have asked. Jayne might have, but that's the man-ape-gone-wrong for you. :D) Thank you all for coming on this journey with me, and I hope you'll rejoin me for future stories! You're a great audience, and I love hearing from you!**

**And now, please, enjoy the ending of "The Man With No Name" (someday I may think of a better title, too, but this is such a classically Western title, I couldn't help it!). I know I certainly did! But then, I'm a hopeless romantic...**

**Final Doctor Quote of the Day: "Knowing's easy; everyone does that ad nauseam. I just sort of hope." --The Fourth Doctor, "State of Decay"**

**Final Firefly Quote of the Day: **

**Inara: Well, since I can't seem to find work as Companion, I might as well become a petty thief like you!  
Mal: Petty?  
Inara: I didn't mean petty.  
Mal: What did you mean?  
Inara: _Suo shee_?  
Mal: That's Chinese for petty. --Inara and Mal, "Trash"**

* * *

Through this world I've stumbled  
So many times betrayed  
Trying to find an honest word to find  
The truth enslaved  
Oh, you speak to me in riddles,  
And you speak to me in rhymes  
My body aches to breathe your breath  
Your words keep me alive...  
–Sarah McLachlan, "Possession"

Inara found Mal on the catwalk, watching the rest of the crew play a ball game down below in the hold. The Doctor had, with very little pleading from Kaylee, gamely put on a t-shirt in lieu of his usual button-down and joined in. He was not, Inara noticed, proving much of an asset to his team, although he seemed to be very good at tripping up Jayne. The game itself was extremely lopsided, since Zoe couldn't play and it was, with the addition of the Doctor, now uneven. But so far as she had ever been able to tell, the game didn't have any rules anyway, and so it hardly mattered.

"You should join in," she told Mal, coming up beside him. "It looks like Jayne and Simon are outnumbered."

"It's good for 'em," said Mal, smiling faintly. He looked less tired, with nearly three days' recovery behind him. She could not quite dislodge the memory of his dead face, though. "Jayne should _always_ be outnumbered, anyway," he added. "That's a law of the universe. Or it should be."

She smiled at this, and they spent several minutes' comfortable silence watching the noisy game below.

"I offered him a place with us, you know," said Mal finally. "The Doctor. I told him he could stay."

"He turned you down."

"Yeah. Can't say I was terribly surprised; man's a born leader. Can you imagine the kinda ruckus raised, havin' he and I on the same boat? He looked pleased, though."

"I think..." Inara paused, considering. "I think he must be terribly lonely. I can't imagine what it must be like, to be the only one left of all your kind. To live so long, and see so much. I remember, when he faced down Vharaj, that I couldn't believe I'd ever thought him human. He was so...different. Terrifying. But watching him now, down there, playing, I wonder if what I saw then was only my imagination."

"He is different," said Mal. "But in the ways that really count, he's just like us, 'Nara. Just like us," he repeated, softly, and glancing at him Inara saw that his gaze was very distant, seeing something in his thoughts, or his memory, something that brought a light to his eyes she'd never seen before. After a moment, though, he seemed to shake himself. "I told him he was welcome to come and visit us anytime," he said. "He said he would, and gladly. Apparently, he promised Kaylee a trip in his ship, and he's been badgering Zoe about baby names since we left Paquin, so I expect he'll turn up once she's had the kid. Man got downright giddy about it. It's a wonder Zoe hasn't shot him yet, way he's been 'suggesting' names. He does seem to be trying not to give away the baby's sex, even though he's coming down awfully heavy on the girl names. He keeps it up, and she might just shove him out the airlock."

Inara laughed. "I thought she seemed irritated."

"I hope he does come back, and welcome," said Mal, "and that ain't something I say about many folk–though I hope he won't bring such trouble with him again."

"Come on, Mal, that wasn't his fault."

"Maybe not–but from what he's said he surely does find it nonetheless." He snorted softly. "Though he was a big help smoothing things over with Badger."

Inara laughed. "Yes, I saw that thing he hauled out of his ship. What _was_ that, anyway? His explanation didn't make any sense."

"Near as I can tell, it's some kind of toy he picked up on some alien planet–and I can't tell you how weird it is hearin' me say that. Bio-technology, he called it. Looks real and acts real, but ain't much more than a fancy robot. Badger was in transports over it, when I showed him the vid. I think he might even be so happy he springs a bonus on us."

"Badger? Really?"

"No." Mal grinned. "But seein' as our luck has actually been something resembling _good_ these past few days, a man can hope. I find I can hope a lot of things, lately..."

Silence fell, and this was, while not _un_comfortable, not easy, either. Inara knew the source of the sudden tension; they'd both spent the past several days avoiding it. But she knew they couldn't ignore it much longer, or it might fester and destroy this fragile peace. She took a deep breath. "Mal...did you mean it?"

She saw the tension enter the line of his shoulders. "Mean what, exactly?"

She forced down the frustration, though it was hard. He could be _so_ difficult. "When we were trying to escape the Renier building, the first time. Don't play games, Mal. I've had a lifetime of those._Did you mean it?_ Or did you just say it to get me to move?"

Now it was his turn to brace himself. "I meant every word of it," he said, very quietly.

Inara let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding. "Good," she said, just as softly.

He pushed off the rail, then, turning to face her. "'Nara...you're a free woman. What I feel for you...you aren't bound or beholden to me in any way. Whatever you decide to do, wherever you go in this life...it's your decision. I'm not lookin' to tie you down. I don't...own you. I–I can't offer you what you deserve. I'll never be able to do that. But, for whatever it's worth and whatever you decide to do with it...my heart is yours, and always will be." Then, looking like he couldn't quite believe he's said all of that out loud, he turned back to the game going on below. A red flush crept up his neck.

She kept her face serene, out of habit more than anything, but inside it felt as though a star had lit up. _This must be what joy is_, she thought.

And that was Mal, to the fingertips, contradictory to the end. Offering her freedom, such as _no one_ had ever offered her, and in the same breath handing her his heart and soul–and apparently expecting her to take it and run.

If there was one lesson she'd finally learned–and it had taken her longer than it should have–it was that the only thing to do when given a heart was to offer yours in exchange. And that it _wasn't_ prison, or a battle lost, but the best kind of freedom for both sides. That there really were bonds to set you free.

She let her smile escape as she watched the cheerful play going on below. Jayne had finally gotten fed up with the Doctor getting in his way, and currently had the Time Lord in a headlock. Kaylee was trying–without notable success–to free the man, demanding that Simon help her, but the young doctor was laughing so hard he could do little. Zoe, from her chair on the sidelines, grinned and rubbed her belly absently. Inara could almost see Wash, standing at her shoulder, grinning with her, and the Shepherd not far away. "Mal," she said, after a moment. "Will you marry me?" She kept her tone conversational, as though they were discussing the weather.

He didn't take his eyes off the byplay below. "Hell, yeah," he said, in the same conversational voice. But she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the slow smile spread across his face, and a few seconds later felt his fingers close over hers. Then he did catch her eye, and she saw in his eyes the same joy she knew was in her own.

Down below, left in an open space by the game's interruption, River began to dance.

The End.

This is me for forever  
One without a name  
These lines the last endeavor  
To find the missing lifeline  
Walk the dark path  
Sleep with angels  
Call the past for help  
Touch me with your love  
And reveal to me my true name  
–Nightwish, "Nemo"


End file.
